


Skybound

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dragons and Magic and Dragon Politics, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Rating subjected to change, did I also mention dragons, dragon rider au, dragons and tight pants, endship for Sam has not been decided yet, everyone is a lil bit kinda attracted to everyone else so, fantastical violence, lots of people dying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't too long ago that all the children, and even Sam himself, had dreamed of becoming a dragon rider. They were honorable and strong, and whenever the Sky Riders rode through the clouds, people would greet them with cheers and poets would burst into songs. But with Prince Lucifer's banishment years ago, and Prince Gabriel's subsequent self-exile, the Sky Riders of Brell has never been lower. Once praised as fierce and mighty protectors of their kingdom, the dragon riders are now seen as nothing more than a bunch of useless mercenaries with only a corrupt Steward to serve.</p><p>Nowadays, all Sam dreams about is asking the pretty tailor's daughter, Jess for a dance and to live peacefully in Lawrence with his brother. After all, Dean has managed to dodge the dreaded dragon rider draft for nearly four years now and it shouldn't be hard for Sam to do the same, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested music for this chapter: Big Sky by Two Steps From Hell

When Sam is sixteen years old, all awkward angles, ankles constantly cold because he had outgrown all his pants, he sees dragons.

Not that seeing dragons in Lawrence is strange by any chance. Their little town had originally been a Rider’s outpost, back when the borders of their kingdoms were tighter. That outpost has since moved miles down south but still the sky over Lawrence sees many dragons, big and small.

There is something different about this flight, though. There are no children out in the streets trying to chase the shadows of the dragons, no maidens out trying to catch a glimpse of the dashing riders, no townsfolk greeting and cheering their heroes; the streets are too quiet. Even at sixteen, Sam can feel that there is something terrible about it.

The dragon, the biggest one there, completely eclipses the midday sun when it flies over the town square. Huge gusts of wind pick up as the dragon’s wings flap and send Sam’s thin cotton jacket flying every which way. Plumes of dust rise in its wake and when Sam opens his eyes again, the dragons are gone. Like a dream, the only evidence being Sam’s chilly ankles, brown from the dust.

A few months later, John gets word that the Southern Outpost has been attacked by raiders. He flies down, and just like the riders from before, he does not fly back. Sam stops looking up at the shadow of the dragons.

-

Sam bids Missouri a good day as he makes a hasty escape from her shop. He loves Missouri to bits but he can live with not visiting her apothecary for months. He sniffs the sleeves of his shirt, nose wrinkling at the stench of dried herbs and flowers and incense, and god knows what else she uses to concoct her medicines. 

He shifts the package under his arms, making sure that the rope stays tight. It’s some healing salves for their blacksmith, Rufus. He’d been complaining that his old war wounds were acting up and Sam was dragged from his usual position at the mortar to make a delivery. He makes his way through the town square even if it will take him much longer to get to the smith’s. He is not in any hurry and he slows his pace to let the breeze wick away the sweat on the tip of his nose.

Sam absently wonders if pretty blonde Jess of the tailor’s will be at the wells again.

There are fewer merchants milling about in the square than Sam is used to. He doesn’t have to look hard for a reason why. There is a great white tent, lined with royal blue, set up in the middle, ugly thing that Sam might’ve described as majestic only a few years ago. On the pointed tip of the tent waves a flag bearing the visage of a six-winged dragon. The few people who are out give it a wide berth.

Sky Riders.

They’ve come looking for volunteers, never mind that the most recruits nowadays ‘volunteer’ under duress. They’ve been dreading this day ever since Sam turned twenty this year. But Dean’s been successful dodging the recruitment crew every year and it wasn’t terribly difficult. Sam is not very worried, but nonetheless, he quickens his pace to the smith’s.

 

The blacksmith’s is hot and loud as usual. It smells like how Dean usually smells, heated metal and sweat. It’s frankly kind of gross, and coupled with the humidity of the forges, it’s a miracle that Dean is as popular with the girls as he is. 

Sam expects to find Dean at the counter, bored and fingers itching to get back to the forges. Instead he is animatedly chatting with a cloaked man. Between them, the counter is full of swords and knives, sharp and new. Dean picks one up, one that Sam knows Dean is particularly proud of. He holds the sword up and swings it away from the man, showing off what Sam had been told was a flawless balance. 

Sam bites his lip. There is only one guy that would have Dean so excited like that. It’s a bit endearing, really.

“Hey Cas,” Sam claps the cloaked man on the shoulder. Castiel stands firm, unflinching.

“It’s good to see you, Sam,” Castiel says, smiling in his direction .

“What has it been, four months?” Sam asks. It’s been a while since Castiel has stopped by Lawrence and Sam has gotten fairly good at guessing how long he’s been away by Dean’s pining. Though Dean would have his hide if he found that out. 

“There abouts,” Castiel says, turning his attention back to the wares on the counter and Dean shoots a glance at Sam before leaving Castiel to browse the goods. 

“And what brings oh-mighty healer apprentice to my neck of the woods?” Dean leans over the counter and reaches out for Sam’s parcel.

“It’s for Rufus,” Sam instructs. “Tell him to use it every night before he goes to bed for two weeks.”

“And here I thought you bought me gifts.” Dean turns to deposit the parcel where Rufus will find it later but Sam catches his arm before he can go any further.

“And the riders are here,” he whispers to Dean. Sam doesn’t miss the way Castiel leans to hear better.

“Oh,” Dean says. “I’ll just have to close up the shop a bit early today then.” 

It’s only midday but Sam is sure that Rufus will understand and so will Missouri. He nods at Dean tightly. It seems that Castiel has also understood their urgency; he picks two swords and a few good knives from Dean’s collection. Dean will be disappointed that he did not get to chat him up as usual but there isn’t anything they can do about it now.

Sam hangs around and waits for Dean to ring up Castiel’s purchases. He wraps up the weapons with a bit of leather and some twine, helping Castiel to tie them onto his pack. There are no horses tied outside as usual and Sam wonders for the hundredth time if Castiel simply walks everywhere. 

“You’ll be back in a few months?” Dean asks Castiel as he sees him out of the shop. 

“Of course.” Castiel smiles and nods at Dean before walking off, the exact opposite direction of the town square.

Dean flings down the Closed sign on the shop door and they makes sure to avoid any large roads on their way back home. Sam can’t help but throw worried glances over his shoulder and Dean puts his arms on Sam’s. Sam remembers to act natural. 

On their way, they pass a few children, barely older than ten or eleven, running to the town square. Today, the streets will be miraculously void of young people like Sam and Dean, only children and old men to stand and watch the riders arrive.

“I hear that the Riders have been searching homes this year.” Dean says.

Sam snorts. He doesn’t believe that the Riders have fallen that far. Or at least, he hopes so.

They should still have a few hours before the riders officially start recruiting in Lawrence. Still, Sam’s heart gives a few nervous jerks before he tells himself to calm down. Dean’s been okay all this time, there is no reason for this year to be different. 

He hopes that Jess has seen it to that she stay indoors today. He hopes that Jess stays indoors today.

“Oh crap,” Dean says suddenly. “I think I forgot to lock up shop.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. Of all days, Dean had to pick the one day when their little town is full of strangers. But they are only a few minutes away from the shop; it shouldn’t take Dean long to run back.

“Right, be back soon,” Sam says and Dean squeezes his arm before taking off, leaving Sam in the middle of the street. He retreats to the nearest building and sits down on the steps.

It will take Dean only five minutes and then they can get back home where it’s safe.

Of course, Fate makes it her mission to be an exceptional bitch today because a well-polished, practical, and no doubt expensive-looking boots come into Sam’s view. 

Of. Fucking. Course. 

“You look like a capable young man,” the rider standing in front of him says. So the Riders haven’t taken to searching homes for eligible men. But they do, apparently, pick them up from the streets when they clearly have no wish to be part of the Riders. 

“How old are you, son?” the rider asks and Sam stands up, hunching his shoulders to make himself seem smaller. It’s not very effective, Sam knows, but it doesn’t hurt to try.

“Twenty this year, sir.”

“Good, you are of age then.” The rider looks pleased. “Follow me.”

An order. Sam’s guts clench at the sound of it. Still, there is still a chance that Sam might get out of this and he and Dean can get back to their boring old lives. It’s a useless lie that he’s telling himself.

He knows what’s going to happen. Hell, he’d seen it enough when he was just a boy, even though back then he had been filled with wonder and awe, not dread. The rider is going to lead him to the town square where they have gathered all the young men and women of age they could find. Then they are going to test them for any potential for bonding. With a dragon. And Sam is sure that he will pass the test, no doubt in his mind, because John Winchester had been a rider, just like Henry Winchester had been, and his father before him.

Being a Rider is in his blood. And that’s what had gotten his father killed.

Sam takes a deep breath.

The awful tent is still up in the town square, taking up most of the space like it belongs there. There are soldiers in dark green clothes and riders in black shiny leather about, setting up tables and taking names of the men and women that have been rounded up from Lawrence. Sam sees a few familiar faces, Brady, the baker’s son, Becky from the tavern, and pretty Jess, who had not managed to dodge the recruitment after all.

The rider at Sam’s side nudges him to the end of the line and Sam tries to not to feel like a cow at a butcher’s. Brady turns around and gives Sam a sad smile.

The line moves quickly and efficiently. There are about fifty people on the line, Sam being one of the last and in no time at all, he finds himself facing down a nameless rider with a slip of paper and a goose feather quill.

“Name?” The rider asks without looking up.

“Sam Winchester.” The rider jots it down before pausing and looking up.

“Surely not the son of John Winchester?”

Sam laughs weakly instead of giving a proper response, surprised that his father’s name is still worth mentioning. 

“He was a good man, your father,” the rider says. “A real shame what happened to him.”

He has nothing else to say about John. He asks for Sam’s age and skillsets before sending him off with the other potential recruits. 

There are a few there who look happy; they are, no doubt, volunteers naively in search of glory and fame. There is a sort of childish hope on their faces, eager to try their hands at Riderhood and to serve the king. Sam cannot blame them. After all, had he not also grown up with the tales of mighty and brave riders saving princesses from evil kings and seen the mighty parades of the Sky Riders headed by Prince Michael himself, thrown flowers at their feet when they returned victorious? Had he not also grown up with the tales of brave riders saving princesses from evil kings, seen the mighty parades of the Sky Riders headed by Prince Michael himself, and thrown flowers at their feet when they returned victorious?

But, Sam thinks bitterly, the king is an absent king who has let Crowley run his country to the ground, abandoned his people and his family. A king like that doesn’t deserve his loyalty or anyone else’s, and neither does a silent prince who does nothing to stop it.

Sam jumps when he feels a small hand pressing onto his back.

“Hey, Sam,” Jess says softly.

“Hey.” Sam smiles what he hopes is a reassuring smile. 

“Dean’s back home?” she asks.

Sam hopes so. He hopes that Dean won’t be stupid enough come to the town square looking for him. Surely he must have realized what had happened to Sam? Perhaps the riders will give the recruits a bit of time to say goodbye to their families before they head for the capital. 

Sam’s head snaps up at the loud cough ahead of them and Jess’s hand snakes into his palm. He doesn’t let go even though his hands are a little sweaty. The cool fingers feel nice against his own. 

A rider is standing on a small, makeshift podium. He is not as young as the other riders, maybe the age of Sam’s father if he were still alive today. He is sporting a neatly-trimmed beard and the black jacket of the riders. Over his heart is a patch: a grey square inscribed in a blue circle. A Fog Rider, then, the same division where his father was stationed . 

When he speaks, he speaks with a strong Southern accent, almost like the one that the people of Lawrence have. If Sam had to guess, he would say that the Fog Rider was originally posted at the Southern Outpost. He wonders if the rider knew John. 

Sam follows the rest of the crowd to a set of tables where a row of riders are waiting for them with a small box. The line shortens even faster than before and every time someone steps up, Sam’s heart beats a bit faster. The recruits eventually get split up into two pretty even groups, one that will get to stay in Lawrence with the few family and friends left and the other that will join the Riders.

Sam steps up to the rider that waves him forward. 

The rider asks for Sam’s name and age again and after he jots down some notes, he pushes the box towards Sam. There is a small object in there, cushioned in some soft looking fabric. It looks like an ordinary pebble, with an irregular oblong shape. Except that it’s completely transparent, like glass.

“Take that into your hands,” the rider instructs, “and if it warms up, congratulations, you are a rider.” He sounds bored. 

“Right,” Sam says but he can barely hear himself with the blood pounding in his ears.

He reaches into the box and takes the pebble out carefully, holding it like he would a particularly fragile egg. 

At first, nothing happens and for a split second he thinks that he might be alright, that maybe he has not in fact, inherited his father’s rider blood. 

Then it flares up like piece of coal, hot and unforgiving.

Sam nearly throws the stone away from him but instead resists enough to simply drop it back in the box. He hisses in pain. The stone has left a small round burn on his palm. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the rider tells him. Sam doesn’t reply and tries to not to touch the reddening mark. He walks off in the direction that the rider points him and feels his face fall at the sight of Jess waiting for him. Still, there is a some part of him that is relieved that he won’t be going through this alone. 

The other group of not-recruits are dismissed. Some are disappointed that they weren’t cut out to be riders and others look positively relieved. The crowd around the tent has grown now- nervous mothers and fathers who have abandoned their daily tasks to hope for the return of their children.

Sam spots a familiar shock of hair among them and knows that Dean is watching.

The Fog Rider is back again, standing on the platform. He gruffly congratulates them on making the cut (on being drafted, Sam thinks bitterly) and tells them to pack only what they need. He instructs them to gather at the tent in two hours.

Two hours to say goodbye to the life you knew, he doesn’t say. 

Jess squeezes his uninjured hand once and throws him a smile before scurrying off to her family. He watches her blonde curls bounce in the sun before walking to Dean.

Dean does not say a word on their entire way back home. 

The silence is heavy as Sam gathers a few good shirts and pants. He debates going out and getting those new boots that the tanner had promised him some weeks ago but decides that the journey to the Capital will be long and hard enough without the new boots blisters. 

Dean is standing on the doorway when he looks up. He has a pack with him, just like the one that Sam is holding.

“I’m going with you,” Dean says simply. Sam huffs. He should have expected this.

“No, you’re not,” Sam answers and Dean snorts, like Sam has said something funny.

“Of course I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam says again, a little more forcefully. “What about the forge, Dean?”

“What about it?”

“Rufus still needs you, man, and I know Lisa’s been planning on asking you out for a while now and…”  
Dean shifts his pack a bit more securely on his shoulder and Sam loses his will to fight.

“Listen, Sammy,” Dean starts, as if he has already had a speech planned but stops. Instead he simply says, “You’re my only family.”

And yeah, Sam is not going to be doing this alone.


	2. Sir Brave Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested music for this chapter: Elan by Secret Garden

Missouri catches them on their way to the town square. She doesn’t say much- she doesn’t need to. She gives Sam a few pouches of herbs and some cooling salve that Sam figures he can put on his hand later. She makes Sam promise to take care of himself and his brother, even if Dean does have the manners of a wild boar. She reaches out to straighten his jacket one last time before turning towards Dean.

“And this here is from Rufus,” she says, handing Dean a package wrapped in leather and twine. It’s probably some knives, Sam thinks. Rufus is a notorious drunk and a hardass but Sam knows that he has a bit of a soft spot for them. 

“Thanks, Missouri,” Dean says as he takes Rufus’s gift. She pulls them both into a hug that might be too tight. but Sam doesn’t want her to stop. He breathes in the smell of her shop and her tea and her medicine. He’s going to miss it, miss her - and Rufus too, that crabby old drunk. 

The square is loud when they get to it, not as somber as Sam thought it would be. Well, it isn’t like they are leaving forever. Even the ones that did not want to go just hours before seem to have warmed up a bit to the prospect of being riders with dragons. Sam suspects the dragon part of that is a major factor in their change in mood. 

They have no problem getting Dean enrolled; it’s not like the Riders can afford to refuse any willing volunteers. Dean tests positive, to no one’s surprise, though he does not burn his hands like Sam did. Dean calls Sam a sissy for making such a big deal out of a rock and helps him wrap some bandages onto his hand. The rider that takes down Dean’s name says something about them getting the whole Winchester set under his breath but Sam pretends not to hear.

The rest of the Riders are waiting for them outside the city gates. 

On their dragons.

The man who seems to be in charge, the Fog Rider, is sitting astride his dragon, and Sam can barely see the Fog Rider’s face from where he is standing. All he can see are the belly scales of his dragon: taupe like polished alloy glinting silver with the sunlight hits it. 

Then, Sam realizes that there are maybe four or five actual riders there. The rest are just foot soldiers and aides. There are two riders up in the air, barely specks in the sky. They circle for a moment before plummeting downwards like hawks. The Fog Rider waits for them to land with another rider by his side. 

This is by far the smallest recruitment Sam has ever seen. The situation must be worse than Sam had previously thought. 

Next to him, Jess looks up at the dragons in awe. It makes Sam smile despite his misgivings. He has always loved dragons, beyond the obvious boyish fascinations. He had loved spending time on top of his father’s dragon, even though he was too young and small to stay up by himself. It wasn’t so often that he could but he did whenever John had time to come back home. A thing of beauty his father’s Dia was, sleek and black. She would puff her chest out proudly whenever Sam ran his hands against the smooth scales. 

There aren’t enough horses or dragons for the new recruits to fly or ride to the Capital, so they walk.

The march is a long and painful one, though the soldiers on horses offer to give some of the women a break from it. Jess remains by Sam’s side and Sam remains by Dean’s side.

Their first night outside Lawrence, the Fog Rider gets off his dragon and walks around, talking to those who have managed to keep their eyes open. The conversations are clipped and strained because all of them are tired, and some of them still angry. But their anger is misplaced; the Fog Rider is not the one who made the decision to draft them- he is simply following orders.

When the Fog Rider finally reaches Sam’s little circle of acquaintances-turned-friends of Jess, Brady, and Dean, huddled around one of many small fires, only he and Dean are awake. Just barely.

“So,” the Rider says quietly as to not disturb the others’ fitful slumber. “I hear you’re the Winchester boys.” 

Dean perks up, suddenly awake. He eyes the Rider suspiciously.

“Yeah, and what’s it to you?”

“I knew your father,” he answers, plopping down on a nearby log with a groan. He looks up at the sky full of stars, the moon shining brightly, not a cloud in sight. Tomorrow, the soldiers had promised, they will pitch a proper camp, but this night is warm enough to camp out, with just moonlight to cover themselves with.

“Yeah?” Dean asks. Sam throws a small twig at the dying embers. A small burst of brightly lit ashes plumes up and disappears, like fireflies.

“He was…”

“A good man?” Sam suggests. 

“A good rider,” he sounds tired. “And he was a stubborn old bastard too.”

Dean’s laugh is hushed but it still rings over the quiet crackle of the fire. 

“That he was,” he agrees as the Rider takes a silver flask out of his pocket. It looks old, engraved with some sort of a pattern that’s been worn smooth and thin with age.

“We enlisted in the same year, he and I,” he says, taking a sip. “Back when we were just your age.”

Dean sits up straighter from where he’s been leaning. He tilts his head like he’s remembering something.

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, “you wouldn’t happen to be Bobby Singer by any chance?”

“Oh, so the bastard’s talked about me?” Bobby laughs. It’s a low, full sound that’s pleasant to hear.

“Only that you drunk as much as you flew.”

“Boy,” Bobby growls in warning but there is no heat behind it. He sighs and takes another sip.

Sam can vaguely remember John talking about a friend in his unit, though he can’t be too sure. Dean was the one who had asked all sorts of questions about the riders. Sam had spent way too much time reading made-up stories about dragons.

“You know I promised John that I would take care of you boys,” Bobby raises the flask to his lips halfway before deciding otherwise and placing the cap back. 

“I’m sorry to say that the Riders have gone to, well, the porthouse.” 

Sam feels a snicker escape his lips. He has heard worse, thought worse, to be honest. 

“But it ain’t all bad, you’ll see,” Bobby slaps his knees once before getting up. “It’s just a shame that John’s not here to see what fine riders his sons will make.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice hollow. “A damn shame.”

-

The first thing that Sam learns as the newest recruit of the Sky Riders is how much he hates walking. He and Brady come up with a theory that the riders make them walk so much so that later, they will want to fly everywhere. When they bring this up to one of the riders, he laughs and tells them yes, that’s probably true. 

It takes them a whole week to walk back to the edge of the Capital, a journey that would have taken them two days by horse, mere hours by dragon. But there is still more travelling ahead. The Capital isn’t just a city- it is a great wall surrounding the thousands and thousands of acres of farmland that surround the city itself. Sam and Dean have only been there once, flown on the back of Dia, though Sam had mostly been asleep then, as they had left Lawrence before the sun rose. The gate to the Capital is as great as Sam remembers.

Thankfully, there are horses and carriages waiting for them when they get to the gate. The carriages are more like wagons: crude and wooden but well-made. Bobby explains to them that because they are recruiting from every corner of their kingdom, it isn’t practical to have them ride the carriages all the way. The Riders can’t afford to. The ‘anymore’ goes unspoken. 

Once everyone settles into the carriages, a few of the soldiers escorting the riders take the reins. Bobby and another rider both mount their dragons, who seem more excited than they had been the entire duration of the trip, and fly off in the direction of the city.

Bobby’s dragon, Rumsfeld, is the biggest of the four dragons with them. Probably because of his age, Sam guesses. Rumsfeld had been the most patient out of all of them during the journey; the other, clearly younger dragons, had been fidgety. Once or twice during the journey, they had opened up their wings and flapped, as if to fly, sending winds to tangle Jess’s hair, but had not actually taken off.

In fact, none of the riders had flown until now, save for the brief scouting just the outside of Lawrence. Perhaps it was some sort of a show of solidarity, suffering with your new brothers in arms to be. Though sometimes they had ridden on top of their dragons like glorified horses so Sam was doubtful.

It’s a sight to behold. Rumfeld’s scales glisten and scatter the sunlight onto the dirt like broken glass. His wings, when fully stretched, take up the whole path so that if he wished to, he could block the entire unit from marching forward. Sam watches as Rumfeld’s hind muscles grow taut, like a cat’s before a jump, and his claws leave marks in the dirt as long as Sam’s forearm. 

Bobby’s dragon is built just like his rider: heavy bones and muscles, thick with years of battle and flight. But nonetheless, he takes off into the air effortlessly. The thin membrane of his wings are almost translucent- Sam can see sunlight struggle through it; it turns the color of brass when it does. The winds that those wings create leave everyone’s clothes and hair in disarray.

It’s breathtaking.

The rest of the journey is not as exciting. While it feels immensely better to be off his feet, there is only so much of wheat and barley fields he can take. At least when he was walking he could entertain himself with identifying the various flora that could be used as cures. 

The recruits fall into silence for a few hours until someone brings up dragons. Suddenly, the carts are alive with what kinds of dragons they want, what color they would get. Jess tells Sam with sparkling eyes that she had always thought that dragons with scales as white as pearls were the most beautiful. 

“I would really want a Guardian, you know?” one of the men sharing their carriage says. Sam doesn’t really remember his name - something like Rod, or Ron. 

Dean snorts loudly at that. “Yeah, you wish, Ron.”

“It’s Rob,” Rob tells Dean. “And why not? I could totally get a Guardian.”

Sam doubts it. There are only a handful of Guardian riders in the entire fleet of Sky Riders. Or only a handful left, if Sam has to be accurate. Prince Michael has a Guardian dragon and so had Prince Lucifer before he was exiled. He’s also pretty sure that Prince Gabriel had a Guardian but that doesn’t matter now; no one has seen Prince Gabriel for years. 

“You know Guardians hatch only for noble blood,” Dean says. “And I don’t see anyone curtseying to you.”

Which isn’t technically true, Sam corrects silently. Guardians have been known to bond to common blood like Sam and Dean. It’s just that the Guardian riders are quick to be taken into the folds of noble blood. 

Rob hums angrily before turning to the boy sitting next to him and talking too quietly for Sam to hear. 

Sam nudges Dean’s foot with his own.

“Hey, remember when we were little and you wanted a Guardian dragon?” he says and Dean looks horribly embarrassed. 

“How do you even remember that? You were like,” Dean does a mental count, “like three.”

“And you had a stuffed dragon doll,” Sam says gleefully.

“Shut up, bitch, that was totally yours.” 

“Well, I’m not the one that named him Sir Brave Dragon and carried him around everywhere.” Sam adds after a thought: “Jerk.”

“No, you wanted to name him Bones.” Dean rolls his eyes at the memory. “What kind of name is that to give to a dragon?” 

“Better than Sir Brave Dragon.” 

Dean smacks him on the arm and Sam laughs and laughs.

-

It’s nightfall by the time they reach the Capital City, which is a testament to how large the Capital actually is. Sam sees it looming up ahead on the horizon a bit before they can see the actual gate. Tall buildings with way too many floors cluster around to make an impressive silhouette against the setting sun. Behind that is the royal palace, almost as big as the rest of the city. 

Sam swears he sees the shadow of a dragon speed away from the city and into the night clouds. 

He kicks at Dean who has been dozing lightly on his shoulder for the past hour or so, snoring a bit too loudly and also drooling, judging by the damp spot on Sam’s shirt.

Dean wakes with a start and a garbled “whasstha’?”

Sam also gently shakes awake Jess, who has been occupying his other shoulder. 

The Capital Gate is a beautiful piece of work, dark wrought irons twisted up into gentle rolling shapes, metal vines and leaves creep up the sides and meet at the top in the shape of a dragon’s wings. The gilded scales glow red in the sunset, like molten gold. 

The sun has fallen completely when they actually get into the city. Pale lamps powered by a combination of oil and magic burn blue in the streets. Sam has never seen anything quite like it; back in Lawrence, the only lights they had other than the sun were small handheld lanterns or candles. Everyone else who has been napping or dozing off are all awake now, looking at the dark city scape.

There are quite a few people out despite the time, though none of them look too friendly. That much, Lawrence has in common with the Capital City- Riders are not welcome here. And the only smiles that do get thrown in their way come from young women and men in tight clothes and red ink on their lips that Sam suspects are probably entirely too friendly, and not just for the sake of being nice.

Now that they are on roads paved with smooth stones, the carriage rattles on faster, the sound of horses’ hooves clopping mixes with the sound of drunken revelry coming from a tavern somewhere near. It doesn’t take long for them to reach the palace, which, Sam assumes, is where the training grounds for the Riders are.

The Sky Riders and the royal family have always been tightly knit; nearly all of the royal family have served as riders one way or the other and anyone with even a drop of the royal blood in them is guaranteed a dragon. It has been this way ever since the history books can remember, ensuring that the most powerful weapons at their disposal are loyal to king and country. It is the reason why Brell has no contenders, or had not contenders at least.

Though the current steward to the Royal Throne has been doing his best to push the Riders away from him, Sam thinks. He doesn’t have to live near the royal palace to know that the Sky Riders have fallen and they have fallen far. No longer are the days when Prince Lucifer cut through the ranks of enemy armies, and every victory in the hands of Prince Michael became a bard’s song. Instead they are left with a shallow shadow of who Prince Michael used to be, a puppet prince whose strings were controlled by the steward, Crowley. 

The Sky Riders these days are unorganized and stretched too thin, and the opportunistic kings from jealous neighboring countries are just biding their time. News of villages in the outskirts of their country travel with the smell of ash in the wind and they carry with them names of bandits and raiders and marauders. The only reason that Lawrence has gone untouched is because of its proximity to a Rider outpost. 

Sam wonders what Lucifer is doing now, stripped of his title, his home, his dragon, or Prince Gabriel who had abandoned his post just a few months after Lucifer’s exile. 

It’s too dark on the training grounds to observe anything, and what little he can see are just more recruits from different corners of the kingdom, just freshly arrived like Sam. It’s too late to do anything, a rider says somewhere and Sam agrees heartily. They are pointed in the direction of the barracks and Sam barely has time to grab his pack before being dragged away by Dean. 

Wake up early tomorrow morning, someone says. The Bonding will begin at sunrise.


	3. An Egg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested music for this chapter: First Breath After a Coma by Explosions in the Sky

They weren’t kidding when they had said that the bonding would begin at sunrise, is what Sam thinks when he opens his eyes. There is an awful noise just outside the window of their tiny room in the barrack and it sounds suspiciously like someone banging two pans together. A quick inspection of the outside world reveals that yes, it is indeed someone banging two pans together and no, the sun has not risen yet. Sam groans and covers his ears with an unfamiliar pillow.

Dean has yet to awaken. He’s snoring, blissfully unaware of the racket outside, lying on his belly with his sheets bunched up near his ankles.

Sam gives himself five minutes to will himself awake before he rolls off the too-small bed and shakes Dean.

The barrack is coming alive with the new recruits, groaning and dragging themselves out of the comfort of beds and pillows. Some wander aimlessly in search of a wash and others in search of food. A grumble from Dean’s direction tells Sam which one his brother is looking for. 

There is a loud call for assembly from outside, a voice that has probably been magnified with something magical, and the new recruits abandon their quests and scramble to gather outside. 

The gathering outside reminds Sam more of a mob than an assembly, but he doesn’t doubt that it will be trained out of them soon enough. Bobby is standing before them, shaking his head at their pathetic attempts to look presentable so early in the morning. He wears his frown like he wears his uniform: proudly and with authority.

“Today will be the last day you get to sleep in so late,” Bobby starts. A few make sounds of disbelief but they are quickly silenced by Bobby. 

“Starting tomorrow, I expect you to be up before that bell rings five times,” he points to a great brass bell tower in the middle of the grounds. “You’re now part of the Sky Riders, ladies and gentlemen, but you’re still gonna have to earn your place here.”

Whatever else Bobby has planned for a speech is cut short when a gangly, skinny-looking rider rushes in. They exchange a few whispers and Bobby’s frown deepens, turning into an outright scowl. 

“There is only one thing on the agenda for today,” Bobby says, addressing the recruits, “just follow Garth here to the Roost.”

And with that, Bobby stalks off, leaving Garth alone to face the crowds. 

“Well then, just follow me,” he motions. There are a few questions of where and when breakfast will be served and Garth laughs and says that food will be the last thing on their minds. 

They pass a few groups of riders, sitting around with their dragons: some working on the leather harness of their saddles and others sharpening their swords. Dean snorts and grumbles about improper sword sharpening techniques. Sam grabs Dean and drags him closer because he figures the riders won’t take too kindly to a lowly recruit criticizing them.

“Even if I am right,” Dean says.

“Shut up, Dean.”

-

The Roost is not what Sam had expected. He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, to be honest. Perhaps something like an oversized bird’s nest, complete with twigs and bits of bark?

What the Roost is, is a field of stone spires and clay pillars. Irregular silhouettes and stone arches litter the entirety of it. There is sudden shift from the green grassy path that they’ve been walking on and the red dry clay of where the Roost begin. Sam can’t see how big it truly is because a singular stone spire, bigger than the rest, looms the furthest over the horizon. Sam sweats despite the cool morning breeze. 

The sky is brightening from slate to a pale robin’s egg blue. Sam can see the Roost better in this light. There isn’t a single egg like shape on the spiky terrain.

“The eggs gather nutrients from sunlight,” Garth says to them, “so they will be the most active right after sunrise.” 

“You guys can go ahead and explore a little; when the time comes, you’ll know it.” Garth sure is eating up the whole mysterious dragon egg bit, and enjoying the puzzled looks from the trainees. 

Dean nudges Sam in the direction of the Roost.

“Come on, Sam.” Sam follows. The others start into the Roost as well, some of them choosing to circle around the field and others plunging right into it like Dean and him. 

As they venture deeper into the field, Sam notices the air getting warmer. He shucks off his vest that he had thrown on to fight the morning chill and Dean ties his jacket around his waist. There are still no eggs in sight but there are strange round impressions in the dirt that get bigger and bigger as they travel further. The spires get taller and broader until they stand like the great towers of the Capital City. The two of them don’t stop until they reach the biggest spire, sticking out like a sore thumb above all the others. Sam doesn’t know why but he is sure that they are right in the very center of the field, the heart of the Roost.

Sam bends down to take a closer look at the oval impression at the base of the spire. The hole is almost as deep as Sam’s torso, maybe even deeper. The bottom is smooth and soft like velvet but the dirt crumbles around it as it radiates out. There are sharp, ugly marks on the edge like something had scooped out whatever had been there.

“Hey Sam, check this out!” Dean calls from somewhere near, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. Dean is standing near a spire, one knee in the dirt. He beckons Sam over without looking.

“What is it?” Sam asks as he goes to look. He has to crane his neck around Dean but he sees it- a milky white sphere sticking halfway out from the base of the spire.

An egg.

“Do you think this is…?” Dean breathes, his voice colored with awe.

“Yeah,” Sam swallows, “I think it is.”

Just then the first golden ray of sunlight peeks out from behind the spires, elongating their shadows. Sam wonders where everyone else has gone off too; it feels like he and Dean are all alone. He can’t hear anyone, _anything_ \- not even the ever-present whistle of bugs or the wind in the grass or the morning songs of the birds. It’s as if they’re in an entirely new world.

The bright sunlight moves over them and hits Dean squarely on his shoulders. The light illuminates his hair then his face (Sam maybe understands why Dean is so popular with the girls). And when it finally hits the egg, Dean gasps.

There is a faint thudding, sort of like a heartbeat, but it comes from every direction, like Sam is standing in the center of a giant beating heart. The sunrise eventually engulfs the entire field, illuminating everything in bright gold. 

And with this light Sam can now see:

The base of the spires are glistening- rather, the eggs inside of them are. The one that has Dean enraptured is positively glowing. Garth had said that the eggs fed on sunlight but it seems to Sam like they are giving off more light than they are taking. The egg’s bright glow dances on Dean’s freckled face, and Sam suddenly realizes that Dean’s hands are mere inches from touching the egg

But before Dean can touch the egg, it shakes. Dean and Sam both takes a step back, startled.

Strange clicking noises are coming from the inside the egg. It shakes some more, dislodging the earth holding it in place. The earthen spire crumbles, falling around the egg and Dean like a sand castle until the egg has enough space to roll out from the niche.

The egg is larger than Sam had first guessed; it’s bigger than Dean’s head, perhaps as big as the torso of a smaller man. Dean picks it up, grunting at the weight of it. The brilliant white coloring fades away into pitch black halfway down the egg- the part that was embedded in the spire, Sam realizes. Even in Dean’s hands, the egg is still shaking, whatever is inside- a dragon, obviously- is still clicking against the shell from the inside.

“I think…” Dean starts, his voice quivering with uncertainty, “I think this is my dragon, Sam.”

As soon as the words leave Dean’s mouth, there is a crack. A very fine line of fracture appears along the egg, from the top of the white to the bottom of the black. The clicking -knocking, Sam realizes - gets louder and louder as more cracks appear on the surface. The egg is positively wriggling in Dean’s arms.

“Woah,” Dean says, trying to keep a firm hold on the egg.

Absently Sam wonders if the hatching is like a bird’s hatching: that is, a long and painful process. His stomach helpfully reminds him that he has not had anything to eat since the few strips of jerky last night. But it seems that the dragon is as eager to meet its rider as Dean is eager to meet his dragon. Dean puts the cracking egg down gingerly on a soft patch of dirt in front of him. The knocking gets louder and louder until a claw, about half the size of Dean’s hand, pokes out.

The claw is sharp; it scrabbles against the smooth, glass surface of the shell until it catches on a jagged break. Another claw appears along the edges and small shards of the shell fall off. The shining silver claws move eagerly as the dragon breaks its home, piece by piece.

Sam stands mesmerized- an actual dragon hatching.

There is a muffled chirp or a squeak, Sam can’t really tell, from inside the egg and Dean suddenly turns his head to Sam. His eyes are wide and panicked. It’s kind of cute actually. 

“Should I help him?” Dean asks Sam. Sam doesn’t ask why or how Dean knows that the dragon is male.

“Um,” Sam hesitates. He doesn’t really know the protocols of dragon hatching. “Maybe you should just leave him alone?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, breathless. “Yeah, that’s what you do with chickens, right?”

Sam nods. There is another muffled squeak from the egg, as if the dragon finds the fact that he’s being compared to a chicken offensive.

The claws break off more pieces of the shell until there is a hole the size of a child’s fist in the egg. Something moves inside and Dean and Sam both lean closer trying to look at it. There is just darkness and Sam can see Dean dying to grab the egg so that he can get a better look at it but he knows that Dean won’t dare to touch the egg now. It shakes for a bit and then suddenly the claws withdraw and an eye appears in the hole.

“Woah,” Dean breathes, “Hello there.”

The eye disappears and the claws come out again; the scratching is faster now, more sure. The chunks coming off the egg are now larger and the hole gets steadily bigger until some leathery appendage pokes itself out with the claws.

The very tip of the dragon’s wing. Sam marvels. 

Suddenly the egg is breaking apart completely, neatly, along the hairline fractures. As it breaks, the egg wobbles uncertainly and falls to one side; Dean nearly jumps up to catch the egg but manages to stay his hand. 

Among the pile of broken shell pieces is a little baby dragon. He is absolutely adorable, with big round eyes and oversized wings. His talons are big- he will grow to be very large indeed- and his scales are a glossy pitch black, like the cut surface of fine obsidian. He shakes off some fragments of the shell on his head and sneezes; a tiny puff of smoke escapes his nostrils. 

He looks up at Sam, then at Dean, then back to Sam again. He wobbles up, legs shaking like a newborn fawn and takes a hesitant step towards Sam.

“Uh, no,” Sam says to the dragon, “Dean is that way.”

The dragon looks confused; he cocks his head to one side and then looks to Dean. He painstakingly takes a step towards Dean and stumbles. 

Dean laughs and scoops the dragon up into his arms.

“Woah, you’re heavy for something that doesn’t eat anything but sunlight,” Dean coos. Sam bites back his smile and stores away the memory for blackmailing purposes. 

The dragon makes quick work of exploring and climbing on top of Dean, sniffing his neck and hands, scrambling up his shirt and settling on Dean’s neck. Dean yells at him to watch his claws. The dragon rests his head on top of Dean’s own and puffs smoke. 

“Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can,” Dean tells the dragon, “Soon, I’m gonna be the one riding your ass.”

“You know what I mean,” Dean adds quickly before Sam can say anything.

“Uh huh.”

“So, uh,” Dean looks at Sam, reaching back to scratch at his dragon’s neck, “What about you?”

A good question, Sam thinks. He doesn’t know what Dean’s felt to find his egg but whatever it was, Sam isn’t feeling it. No special tug in his gut, no mystical forces leading his feet.

Sam looks back on the empty impression that he had been inspecting earlier. 

“I don’t know man,” Sam shrugs. 

“Oh.”

Dean suggests that they start heading back, perhaps there was something along the way that Sam had missed. Instead they end up going around in spirals as Dean drags Sam to nearly every spire in the Roost to see if that egg is the ‘one’.

Sam lets himself be dragged but pays only half-attention to it anyway. Wouldn’t it be ironic, he thinks, if Dean ends up volunteering because Sam got drafted, only to have Sam not bond to any dragons? Sam watches Dean’s dragon snuggle up to his brother’s neck. It can’t be comfortable- Dean hasn’t properly washed himself for days and they’re both sweating like pigs. But the dragon seems to be determined to soak up as much of Dean as he can. Sam squashes the vague feeling of jealousy that rises up in his belly. 

He hates this; Dean is only here, in this situation, because Sam was dumb enough to get snatched up by the riders. Dean volunteered so that Sam wouldn’t have to do this alone and Sam can’t, he just can’t, let Dean be forced to be a rider alone.

The mostly-healed burn mark that the rider’s stone left him aches. 

They spend hours in the labyrinth of spires and none of them responds to Sam, not like Dean’s egg had to Dean. Eventually they are so overtaken with hunger and exhaustion that they decide to head back. Sam hopes that he isn’t the only one without a dragon to show for their trip. But that is unheard of. Unless the rider-to-be was so embarrassed of his failure that he had never spoken of it again. Sam can relate, he thinks. 

When they finally emerge from the dry, red Roost, onto the green grassy paths, it is clear that everyone else has been waiting for him (them?). And to Sam’s dismay, everyone has a dragon in their arms, some perched upon their rider’s shoulder like Dean’s, some lazily rolling on the ground like sleepy cats.

The dragons are all different shapes and sizes. Jess’s is a small canary yellow darling that seems as happy and sweet as Jess is- it puts it’s two paws around Jess’s neck, as if hugging her and Sam swears he can hear it purr. Dean’s dragon seem to be the largest of them all, Sam notes. The only ones with a dragon that comes even to his are the dragons of two girls, standing next to each other.

Guardians, Sam realizes. Dean has bonded himself to a Guardian. 

He should’ve realized from the intense coloring of the scales, deepest black that Sam’s ever seen, perhaps only matched by a moonless night. The claws are the color of polished silver so clear that Sam can almost use it as a reflective surface if he needs to.

Sam looks up to find that everyone else is staring at him and Dean. 

“Well, well, what do we have here?” a voice says. It is quiet and teasing but Sam does not think that the owner of the voice is the type to kid around. It’s a voice full of the kind of amusement that cannot be shared with anyone else.

“A dragonless rider?” the voice speaks again. There is a tall rider, so tall that his head pokes out of the sea of rider trainees, probably as tall as Sam himself. The rider is skinny too, sort of like Garth who is standing next to him, fidgeting nervously, but he holds himself surer than Garth, elegantly, the way only noble blood can.

Sam doesn’t know how to respond to his question. Instead it is Dean who comes to his defense.

“Maybe we just need more time to look around the grounds,” Dean shrugs. But Sam doubts it- it doesn’t work like that.

The tall rider steps forward and the recruits part a way for him.

“Captain Alastair,” the rider says, smoothly extending his hand to Dean. It’s only then that Sam sees the dark navy armband with six dragon wings entwined in a circle- a Six-Wing Captain of the Blitz Riders. Dean takes it and shakes it with his usual confidence. Sam isn’t sure if he himself would have. Something about Alastair unsettles him.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says and then adds uncertainly, “Sir.”

“Well then tell me Dean,” Alastair says, smiling pleasantly, “is the bond something that can be dismissed like you say?” 

“Um, well…” Dean hesitates, his eyes flick to Sam.

“Clearly you love your brother very much,” Alastair continues, ignoring Dean, “so I understand why you would want him to be a dragon rider as well.”

“However, it is obvious that there has been some sort of mistake with your brother here…”

“Sam,” Sam says, swallowing, “My name is Sam.”

“Well then, Sam,” Alastair smiles at his direction; it is not a kind smile. “Unfortunately, you do not share the great rider’s blood with your father and brother.” 

Sam feels his face heat up. Some of the recruits have started whispering and he can hear the two girls that have bonded with Guardians laughing. At him, Sam is sure. 

“Hey, wait a minute,” Dean interrupts, “that’s not very fair.” 

Alastair rounds on him very suddenly, any trace of his mocking smile gone, voice hard. He says, “You will address me as Sir or Captain from now on, is that understood?”

Dean grits his teeth, fist clenching. His dragon, who has been lazily rolling on his shoulders so far, bristles and hisses at Alastair. It is a fierce little thing. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean manages to grind out. But he squares his shoulders and shifts up and if Sam knows his brother at all- which he does, very well- he is about to start something that really can’t end well for Dean.

“Dean, it’s okay,” Sam whispers, holding his brother back. Dean looks back at Sam just then and his dragon coos at Sam; it almost sounds apologetic. It makes Sam feel worse. 

“I’m sure Sam will be happy to hear that he can go back home now,” Alastair says smugly.

“In fact, you will pack your belongings by tonight and leave the first thing tomorrow morning,”

“What?” Sam can’t leave - he just can’t. He refuses to leave Dean all alone here. “I can’t leave.”

“You can and you will,” Alastair says with finality, “We can’t have a non-rider wasting up our resources just because you’ll miss your brother.” 

Which Sam knows is a blatant lie. There are plenty of non-riders at the barracks even if they are just servants or blacksmiths or anything. But even before Sam can argue, Alastair turns around, dismissing him. 

“Those of you who has managed to prove your worth today, are dismissed.” He says, addressing the rest of the recruits. “Just make sure you won’t be late for Captain Singer’s training tomorrow morning.”

Dean lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture but all Sam feels is hopelessness. He can’t leave Dean here, not when it’s his own fault that Dean had wound up in this cursed place.

He turns to face Dean. Dean looks worried and upset, and no doubt there is a similar expression on Sam’s own face. 

The new recruits are dispersing now, some complaining about the lack of breakfast, some excited to have finally bonded with their dragon. The gloom that had clouded their expressions the entire way here has all but disappeared. And Garth makes his way up to them through the crowd.

“Hey, Sam!” he calls out, “that is your name, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, voice strained. 

“Listen, I’m sorry about all that mess there.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“That’s the first time I’ve seen someone come out of the Roost empty handed,” Garth explains, his arms flailing. So it is just Sam who has failed to bond. “But hey, at least you get to go home now.”

Why is it that everyone thought that Sam wanted to go home? He doesn’t want to, his brother is here, he can’t leave.

“I don’t want to leave,” Sam tells -almost yells at- Garth, “I can’t leave my brother here.”

“Oh,” Garth says simply, “then maybe I can help you.” His grin is full of teeth.


	4. Nice Seeing You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music suggested for this chapter: Autumn Love by Thomas Bergersen

The days are getting shorter and the mornings, colder. They are going to have to get some thicker blankets for the bunker, Dean thinks, thoughts still hazy from the sleep. 

Dean dares to crack one eye open. Sam is still sleeping on the bed, the sky still dark. He misses the days when he was able to sleep in. Back in Lawrence, Rufus had given him three out of seven days off and Dean would sleep away the fatigue until Sam enticed him out of his bed with the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the fat. But these days, Sam and Dean are always exhausted and busy: Dean with his dragon rider duties and training and Sam with his job at the healer’s station. 

Though Sam doesn’t have to get up early for the morning run, lucky bastard. (Dean ignores the times that Sam had voluntarily accompanied him and the other riders on their morning routine)

Sam whimpers on the bed besides him. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls out, “wake up, man.”

But Sam doesn’t hear him. He frowns and tosses fitfully.

“Sammy,” Dean says again, but this time he rolls off his own bed and goes to shake Sam awake.

“Hey Sam, come on.”

Sam’s eyes snap open.

“What?” He takes a deep, shuddering breath with his dry voice that has not yet woken up with the rest of him. He doesn’t remember the nightmare - he never does. Dean knows because this isn’t the first time he has woken Sam up like this. The bags under Sam’s eyes are getting darker and heavier; Dean forgives him for all the nights that he’d woken Dean up with his restless slumber. 

Sam groans and swings his freakishly long legs over the side of the bed. 

“What time is it?” he says, clearing his throat. Dean shrugs. The bell has not rung yet- it rings every day about an hour before sunrise- but Dean’s internal clock tells him that it will soon. Sam wraps the blanket around himself like he used to when he was a child.

“Time to rise and shine!” Dean yells and tugs hard at the corner of Sam’s blanket. Sam curses at the stark, chill morning air and jumps out of bed to chase Dean as he runs away with the covers, laughing. 

-

Impala has grown like a weed in the past two months. Even faster than a weed actually - Impala had outgrown Dean’s shoulders in the first week, though he had insisted on using Dean as a perch for a week more. Now, he was the size of a full grown Sky Dragon, slightly larger than a healthy stallion. But his wings were still too big for his body, his claws still looking out of place like the big paws of a hound pup- he was going to get even bigger, as big as Prince Michael’s dragon that Dean had observed closely only once.

A gust of wind blows dust into Dean’s eyes and he scowls. Impala lands with a thud, but gracefully; it’s almost hard to believe that he has only been flying for a month. 

_It’s because I was born to fly._ Impala’s voice rings in Dean’s head. One day he is going to get used to his dragon being inside his head. 

“Well, humans can’t walk until we’re like, one or two years old.”

Impala snorts and shakes his head in a way that tells Dean exactly what he thinks about that, probably something along the lines of humans being weak. Dean doesn’t know where Impala gets that kind of thinking from, seeing as he’s been in a freaking egg for the most of his existence.

 _The light carries more knowledge than your books can ever hope to contain,_ Impala says proudly. It’s kinda annoying and it also sort of reminds Dean of his brother. Though, Dean thinks fondly, Impala reminds Dean of his father more than anything. He is the spitting image of his father’s Dia and her slick black scales, save for Impala’s silver shiny claws to Dia’s own black ones. 

_I would have liked to meet her._

“Yeah, me too, baby,” Dean says lightly as he goes to fetch his gears. He misses John and he misses Dia too. Not a day in the barracks goes by where Dean doesn’t experience something he wants so badly to tell John about, like the day Impala had first spoken to him, or the day when they had first flown together. He likes to think that John would’ve been proud of him - and of Sam, who had stuck around even after that Captain of the Blitz Riders had told him to leave. 

Dean is already dressed in his riding suit. It’s a complex leather contraption that had taken Dean no less than three days to learn how to put on, with way too many buckles than Dean knows what to do with. It is also very tight, and often attracts the attention of some of the other riders, despite the fact that they are wearing the same thing. The saddle- though Impala hates it when he calls it that- is even more difficult to figure out and is a death trap of thick leather hide seat, straps, and belts. 

“Do you need some help with that?” Jess’s blonde hair pokes out from Impala’s other side.

“Uh,” Dean scratches the back of his neck, “sure.”

Jess’s dragon is a Sky Dragon, an affectionate little thing, which means that it had matured enough to ride on the within two weeks of the hatching. Jess is definitely one of the better flyers among the new recruits, and has even taken to helping the Guardian and the Wyrm riders to get used to flying. 

She takes hold of the other side of the seat and starts securing the buckles around Impala’s leg and body. Impala, though he is sometimes a bit too disdainful of humans, relaxes at Jess’s soothing touch. Dean can feel his contentment roll off of him like a waterfall. 

“So,” Jess says, hands moving expertly at a dizzying speed, “how is Sam?”

Dean laughs. He can tell that she is trying to be casual even though everyone, including Garth’s dragon, who could be a little bit dense just like his rider, knew that Jess was sweet on Sam just like Sam was sweet on Jess. And also because Sam had asked Dean the same about Jess just yesterday.

“Oh you know,” Dean answers, tugging at his side of the saddle (Impala snorts, a puff of smoke shooting into the air), “busy as usual, up to his elbows in herb pastes.”

Jess hums and looks at Dean shyly. “Well, tell him I said hello.”

“Will do,” Dean grins, flashing his teeth. He tugs on the straps one more time before mounting Impala. It’s a beautiful day today; the sun has warmed the air up just a bit. Dean knows his breath is going to come out frosty when he actually gets up in the sky but he never feels the cold when he’s flying anyways. He looks down at Jess who is watching him impassively from the ground. 

She gives him a mock salute which he returns with a cheeky grin. 

Then, Impala takes off running, leaving long gashes on the dirt ground of the training field, faster than a horse, and he gives his wings a mighty beat. It’s not enough but Impala is still running, Dean clutches at the reins (they are more like a handle than reins, more for giving Dean some stability than controlling Impala, not that Dean needs it) before leaning his body closer to Impala’s powerful back. 

His wings are still beating, beating, and Dean can hear other riders yelling at him to stop because Impala is running straight towards the dense line of trees at the edge of the field, but Impala doesn’t care, and Dean doesn’t care, because he knows that Impala has got this, he isn’t worried because he trusts-

Suddenly Impala is flying over the trees, his belly scales just a few inches over the tallest branch and Dean lets out a loud whoop. More beats from Impala’s wings takes them higher and higher and Dean dares to look back and down;the field and the riders are shrinking rapidly- he can only just spot the yellow of Jess’s Sky Dragon- and he hears Impala’s laugh echo in his head.

“You bastard,” Dean laughs too, “you did that on purpose.”

Impala laughs again in response. It’s really impossible to be upset when you’re flying with the wind replacing the blood in your veins, clouds in your hair, entire body filling with air, the loud drumming of your heart in your ears.

Impala climbs up and up, until his body is almost vertical and Dean let’s his back catch on the seat of the saddle. The Capital City is just a black spot the size of Dean’s palm now, marring fields of gold and brown, the colors of the harvest and sunset. 

Impala lets his body fall back and Dean lurches forward, throwing his arms to grab a hold of Impala’s neck and they fall, together, with their backs to the ground, face up to the sun and Dean can’t hear anything but the sound of the skies in his ears.

They are falling, falling but Dean isn’t worried; he knows and trusts Impala.

Impala opens his wings wide and lets the them catch the wind just before he beats them again. Impala slows until Dean thinks they’re going to stop falling, close enough to the ground that Dean can see the dumb expressions on the riders’ faces, and then they soar again.

Okay, so Impala might have picked up his show-off streak from Dean. 

_Soon I’ll be big enough to carry both you and Sam._ Impala rumbles proudly.

They do a few more laps around City and the fields surrounding it and Dean lets go of the reins and opens his palm up to the cold, thin air of the skies. It’s not just the thinner atmosphere that is making Dean breathless though -he doesn’t think he will ever get used this feeling of freedom. He breathes, deeply in and deeply out, opening up his arms as Impala dashes through a particularly low-hanging cloud, just like Captain Singer taught him to. From what Dean can tell from Sam’s mumbling complaints, too many new riders have been brought to the healers because they weren’t getting enough air while they were up in the sky. Dean can relate though; he doesn’t ever want to go back down again until he suffocates. 

Dean feels Impala stiffen before he can hear the wings beating; Meg, a noble-born girl who had bonded with a Guardian just as Dean had, is flying behind them and Dean scowls. He doesn’t like her much, doesn’t like the way she eyes Sam whenever she sees him, and he’s never been more thankful for Jess. 

Meg’s dragon, Deva, is a deep, opulent shade of violet, deeper than any flower petal or any silk that Dean has seen. Personally, it offends Dean’s tastes but he grudgingly admits that the shade of red and pink the scales turn in sunlight can be described as beautiful.

Deva speeds up until she is flying neck to neck with Impala and Impala snorts, turning his head away from her. Dean doesn’t have to be mind-melded with Impala to feel his disdain. 

Meg smiles at Dean but it is far from friendly.

At Dean’s prompt, Impala rolls away from them, wings tucking in close to Dean, but Deva and Meg aren’t far behind. Dean would be lying to himself if he wasn’t impressed with Deva mimicking Impala. 

But they fall back just slightly, enough that Deva is simply chasing Impala’s heels.

Impala slows as they come back over the training grounds, slow enough to hover. He descends carefully, making sure he doesn’t crush anything or anyone. Dean laughs at him for his useless worrying.

Meg is upon them as soon as Dean dismounts, not even bothering to dismount herself. She’s probably used to looking down on people anyway. 

“You know Winchester,” Meg says, “you and I are on the same team.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans on Impala, who is sitting back on his hind legs, neck up and wings flared out. 

“Not for long, sweetheart,” Dean drawls. Meg shoots him a cold look before turning away. Deva flicks her tail at them haughtily as they walk away. 

And Dean lets them run off to their spoiled brat friends without a fight.

-

If there is anywhere busier than the training grounds of the barracks, it is the healer’s station. The building where the sick are housed is well-used and it shows: the paint on the door is chipped and worn away, floor scuffed from the hard leather boots that the riders wear. Healers and apprentices are always moving from one side of the station to the other, carrying vials and buckets and towels with them, shooting an offensive glare at anyone foolish enough to get in their way. 

Sam is no different. His brown apprentice’s robe is rolled up to the sleeves and he is carrying a metal basin full of steaming water. He’s sweating despite the autumn chill. Sam acknowledges Dean with a smile and a nod but rushes off to whomever is in such a dire need for hot water. Dean is used to this and he has learned his lesson from the first time he tried to talk to Sam while he was still on duty. Instead he stands to the side and patiently waits for Sam to come to him. 

Sam looks exhausted, not just from the nightmare, but also because of his work at the healer’s station. Dean knows from his brief stint with a sprained ankle that there are way too few healers and too many injured riders. 

“Hey Dean,” Sam says.

“Bad day?” Dean asks, eyeing the full beds occupied by riders sporting splints and bandages. Some are even sitting on makeshift cots made from a few chairs thrown together. One of them leans over the side of his bed and grabs a pail there, emptying the contents of his stomach with a wretched noise. Dean wrinkles his nose and Sam nods, taking off his apprentice’s robe, hanging it on the rack next to him. It gets snatched by another apprentice who takes it and gives it to a rider with a broken arm to cover himself up. 

“It’s bad every day,” Sam sighs. More and more riders have been flooding in now that the harvest season has begun. Bandits and raiders targeting the outlying villages for their grains and crops are making the too few riders stretch too far. 

Dean pats Sam’s back sympathetically. 

“Come on, tiger,” Dean leads Sam out the station, “let’s go have some lunch.”

-

There is a rhythmic tapping on the tiny window outside of Dean and Sam’s room. It’s very quiet, and Dean would have slept right through it if he hadn’t been straining his ears for it all night. 

There is a familiar shadow of a cloaked man outside his window and Dean almost stumbles out of bed like a teenager trying to get up. He tugs his boots on, not bothering to tie the laces, and makes sure that Sam is still sleeping soundly. Though Dean doesn’t doubt that Sam is, given how ragged the healers have been running him. Nevertheless, he closes the door slowly, wincing at every creak the old wooden floor makes as he makes his way out.

Being out of the barracks after lights out wasn’t forbidden, just highly discouraged and rarely attempted. Mostly it’s because by supper time, every rider and healer and smith and page is ready to snore into their soup bowl, but there have also been a few occasions when a few overly amorous riders were caught in the midst of passionate and torrid lovemaking. Or so Dean hears from Gordon anyway.

Not that Dean is on his way to do that - passionate and torrid lovemaking, that is.

Dean silently follows the cloaked figure to a bit more private area where there was a less chance of a light sleeper being woken up by their voices.

“Hey Cas,” Dean smiles.

Castiel lowers the hood on his ever-present cloak, letting the moonlight shine down on his face. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel returns.

“So uh, obviously I got your message,” Dean says, taking a folded slip of paper from his pocket. On it is an instruction in a familiar scrawled handwriting to not fall asleep on the seventh day of the tenth moon so that they can meet once more. The words make Dean blush. Maybe this is a passionate and torrid something, after all. 

“Yes,” Castiel nods, “I heard from Rufus that you and your brother had been recruited.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “It’s not all bad though.”

Castiel hums, going still when the wind rustles something in the distance. He throws his hood back on and nearly dives for the cover of a nearby tree.

“Relax,” Dean whispers to him, “we won’t get in trouble.”

But Castiel looks doubtful. It occurs to Dean that perhaps there is a reason why Castiel hasn’t come to visit him during the day, choosing instead to communicate via unsigned messages delivered by a clueless page. 

They stand silently for a minute before Castiel is convinced that there aren’t any night patrols out to get riders who aren’t tucked into their beds.

“I thought,” Castiel says, “I thought, they would be more careful since…”

“Since what?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks to Dean before answering, looking away, “Since Prince Gabriel had deserted.” 

“Oh,” Dean scratches his head, “I don’t think there are enough riders to do night patrols.” 

It’s true. The barracks have been a skeleton crew since the harvests started and it’s only going to get worse. Dean’s father was always the busiest during the fall and winter when bountiful harvests lured in raiders and failed ones turned desperate people into thieves. There are barely enough riders in the Capital to train the new recruits, let alone keep a tight watch on them. Even Bobby, who had confessed to Dean that he was in charge of training them, has been away most of days, save for those brief stints to the palace to report back to the Steward. 

Castiel squints at Dean’s face as if he’s looking for something there. “I see,” he says. 

“So, what bring you here?” Dean lets the corner of his mouth curl up, “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” Castiel says bluntly. Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. 

“So you came all the way to the Capital?” he asks.

“It was on the way.” On the way to what, Castiel doesn’t elaborate and Dean knows him enough to not push. 

So instead he prattles on about the past two months like he always had to Castiel whenever he came to Rufus’s forge. Dean tells Castiel everything, basking in Castiel’s smile when he tells him about Impala and his penchant for dismissing humans.Castiel frowns when Dean tells him about the overworked healers and Sam.

“I thought that Sam was also to be a rider?” Castiel asks and Dean nods.

“Yeah but we couldn’t find an egg for him, you know?” Dean isn’t sure if he does but Castiel nods anyway.

“But the rider’s stone had warmed in Sam’s hands?” Castiel asks again.

“Nearly burned his freaking palm off.” 

Castiel’s frown deepens but Dean doesn’t know if it’s just the moonlight making it look that way.

They talk for another hour or so, until Dean’s exhaustion starts to get the better of him. Castiel’s been distracted anyway, choosing to answer in mostly monosyllabic answers and Dean doesn’t want to keep him for too long from… wherever it is that Castiel’s heading to- somewhere north probably. 

“Alright, well,” Dean stretches his legs and back, stiff from the lumpy rock he has been sitting on, “I better turn in. It was nice seeing you Cas.” 

Castiel looks up at that, finally coming back from where his mind had wandered off to. 

“It was nice seeing you too, Dean.”

Castiel tightens the sash around his cloak to secure it better. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to shake Dean’s hand or hug him so Dean gives him a nice, friendly - and not at all passionate and torrid - slap on the back. It kinda feels like hitting a solid rock wall. 

Castiel turns around to look at Dean before he walks away into the night.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks to visit,” he promises and Dean nods.

“Visitor hours are after lunch and supper,” he says but Castiel simply tells him to look out for another message. 

When Dean returns to his and Sam’s room, Sam is sweating and shivering under the blankets. Dean makes quick work of his own clothes until he is left with just his shirt and pants. Dean soothes his hand over Sam’s wet forehead and he grabs the blanket from his bed and climbs in next to Sam. The bed is smaller than the ones they had shared as children, now that they are grown men (though Sam probably still has a bit left to grow) but Dean tries his best to chase away Sam’s dreams anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are curious, I usually post an unbeated, unedited version of the next chapter on my blog (http://writesshits.tumblr.com/) a bit earlier than on here


	5. We Were Ambushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music suggested for this chapter: Caradhras by Two Steps From Hell

The door to Captain Alastair’s suit is huge and ornate. It stands taller than perhaps the height of seven men to allow for the entrance of even the biggest Guardian dragon- it makes Meg feel inadequate. The high ceiling is etched with elaborate marble works and paintings. Golden vines curl from a heavy marble column to the doors, slithering down to form a surprisingly delicate handle adorned with rubies the size of children’s fists, opals, and blood red shimmering plates that Meg suspects are dragon scales. Even Meg, who has been raised in luxury - her first gown was made of spider silk imported from the north - can’t help but raise her eyebrows at it. Alastair is certainly taking advantage of the Steward’s hospitality. 

The floor, too, is the color of the deepest and finest wine, as if the entire carpet was soaked in it. The furniture is made of the wood so black that it almost reminds Meg of Winchester’s dragon. She scoffs and approaches Alastair’s desk.

His dragon, Crucia is sitting motionless behind him, tail extended into the furthest corner of the room, her head tucked so that her massive body is curled loosely around Alastair’s desk. Her silver gray scales are roughened from years of battle and it almost makes her look like a massive stone statue. The only thing that gives her away is the lazy blink of her eyes. 

“Meg,” Alastair acknowledges when she gets near enough. There is a plush looking chair the same color of the carpet but she chooses to remain standing. 

“Captain,” Meg returns with a nod. She braces her hands behind her back, head high, feet spread apart. Deva slithers up behind her and does not flinch when Crucia suddenly hisses. 

“You’ve got something to report?” Alastair asks, looking down at a map rather than at her. He sounds bored.

“The Winchester boys,” Meg starts, “you asked me to-”

“I know what I asked you to do,” Alastair interrupts her. Meg grits her teeth.

“Have you news on the younger brother?”

“Sam,” Meg clarifies, “he’s been working as an apprentice at the healer’s.”

Alastair looks up at that, putting the map down. “He has not left?”

“No, sir.”

He hums, as if thinking. His long fingers drum on the polished wooden table, looking much like a misshapen spider that has lost three of its legs. His hand skitters across the map, touching a quill here, gathering some paper there, until Meg realizes that he is writing. 

“Well then, it is truly unfortunate that I must report this to our Royal Steward.” The room is filled with the sharp sounds of the quill scratching on the paper, squeaking across unpleasantly. 

Meg doesn’t understand why Alastair (or the Steward) is so invested in the Winchester boy. As far as she can tell, he is nothing special if not for his bleeding heart and his penchant for mixing the most effective fever cures. 

_I quite like him,_ Deva says in Meg’s mind. Meg snorts and is about to retort when she realizes that Alistair has finished and is folding up the paper in half. She reaches out to take it from him and he holds it up and away from her.

“No no, I will take this to the Steward myself,” Alastair says, shaking his head. 

“Of course,”

“You are dismissed, Miss Masters.” He tucks the message into his breast pocket and waves her off, his eyes on the map again. Meg feels a surge of annoyance at that. She is the daughter of Azazel Masters, the Duke of Andover- and she will not be treated like a simple grunt.

“Oh, Miss Masters?” Alastair calls out and she turns around.

“Yes, sir?”

“What of the other Winchester boy?”

Meg frowns and then scoffs at the memory of the short conversation that she has had with him.

“Arrogant,” She says and then adds after a moment, “a good flyer for a commoner.”

With that Meg turns her heel and lets herself out. Her parents did not raise her to be a dumb, petulant girl who threw a fit whenever she did not get her way. Instead she holds her head up high as she steps out of Alastair’s suite, the soles of her boots clacking against the marble floor of the palace. It will take a year for Deva to finish growing into her bones and when that day comes, Meg promises, Deva will be bigger and stronger than the thick heavy thing Crucia has become. 

-

The healer’s station is even busier. Sam had not thought that that was possible. But with the first snowfall of the year has come the first of what Sam is sure, many strings of colds and fevers. The illness has in its grips about a third of the new riders and seems to be taking in more victims every day. Sam makes sure that Dean is swaddled up in scarves and hats before he goes off to train. 

Sam hands a bundle of herbal remedy wrapped in wax paper to a sneezing, coughing, and sniffling rider. The rider looks absolutely miserable and Sam would love to offer him a comfortable bed at the healer’s station but they need the beds for when injured riders come in. 

“Take a spoonful with hot water before every meal,” Sam instructs and the rider nods before going into a coughing fit. Sam winces. He has to push the rider out the door before he can spill his lungs on the station floor and Sam can’t help but feel a bit guilty. He blames the damn leathers, really - sure it looks really badass and cool (and really, really attractive on Jess) but it does not to keep the riders warm when they go up to the skies.

Sam starts calculating how much of the meager apprentice’s wage he has saved up as he waves the next patient over. Perhaps he could sneak out into the city during his break to buy Dean some warm coats. Definitely something with fur lining and perhaps a new hat that will stay on during flight.

For the next hour or so, Sam goes through about five riders, prescribing honey for the sore throat from the illness, some cooling salve for a hand that got too close to the campfire, a frown for a rider who clearly had just wanted to get out of training.

And it’s just then that Adam calls out Sam’s name. He and everyone else working at the station today; there are only eight of them, as even some of the healers have succumbed to the flu. 

There is a struggling group of riders, all in the grey leather jackets of the Gale Riders. This is the first time Sam has seen so many Gale Riders at once, the only other time was when a messenger had flown in a few weeks ago to hastily deliver more news of raiders in the west. All of them are sporting some sort of injury, hastily wrapped bandages around various parts of their bodies. An enemy attack then, and not the flu. 

One of the Gale Riders who has been helping her teammate stand upright waves Sam over. She has, by far, the least- injury of them all, only a few bruises and scrapes from what Sam can see, and perhaps some exhaustion. Still, he reminds himself to make sure she gets checked out for any internal wounds. Sam takes her teammate and immediately sways at the dead weight- the man is passed out cold. Sam makes sure he still has a pulse before practically carrying him to one of the beds inside the station. 

When Sam comes back out to help out the other riders, he sees the Gale Rider conversing with one of the senior healers. Her blonde hair, matted with blood and dirt, has been scooped up into a messy ponytail and she is still breathing harshly, running on fear and shock. Sam realizes that she doesn’t look older than he does, maybe even younger. 

“We were ambushed,” she says quietly but firmly. Her hands are at her hips and even though she looks exhausted and the worse for wear, her stance never wavers. 

“I need to speak to the Captain in charge straight away,” the Gale Rider tells the healer. “Who is in today?”

She frowns when the senior healer tells her that it is Captain Lilith. She shakes her head and sighs, tugging at her hair. 

“Come on, Jo,” the healer tells her, “you need to be tended to.” He looks around and spots Sam. Sam doesn’t need to be told twice before he goes to them. 

The senior healer makes Jo promise that she will listen to Sam and tells Sam to check her for injuries. Harvelle riders are notorious among the healers for not seeking the proper medical help even when they need it, it seems. The healer hurries away to tend to more urgent riders then and Sam tries to lead Jo to the station.

“I’m fine,” she tells Sam but he doesn’t believe that. 

“Look, I wasn’t the one that got ambushed, okay?” she says, arms waving, upset.

“Okay,” Sam holds up his hand in surrender, “but I still have to make sure. Healer Hadley will have my ass if I don’t.”

Jo sighs and lets Sam seat her on one of the cots. 

“Did you say that your name was Jo Harvelle?” Sam asks while he checks her arms for any breaks or fractures. There are a few nasty bruises here and there but nothing more.

“That’s right,” she says proudly, “my mother is Captain Ellen Harvelle of the Gale Riders.” 

Sam had seen Captain Harvelle before, decked out in the usual Gale Rider garb. She was an impressive woman- she’d held herself in the way that demanded respect from everyone, even from the noble-borns who had initially looked down on her because she’d come from a common family. Hell, even the fact that she had climbed up to the rank of a Six-Wing Captain among Guardian riders with a Sky Dragon is a testament to her prowess as a leader. Any rider who doesn’t respect her or is at least a little bit afraid of her is a fool.

Sam hums, checking over Jo’s legs for any injuries. They’re in about the same state as her arms: bruises and scratches. He suspects they might be a bit sore from what he assumes was an intense bout of flying. 

“Take a deep breath for me,” he asks Jo and he gingerly checks her ribs over her rider’s leather. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jo says as she exhales.

“What?”

“You’re thinking that my mom made me become a rider,” Jo’s face looks more serious than any girl her age has the right to be.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Sam shakes his head. 

“Well, good.”

Sam makes sure she hadn’t gotten any neck or head injuries. There is a nasty looking gash on her forehead but it has sealed itself up. Sam takes a wet cloth to it, washing some of the blood away, just to make sure it hadn’t picked up any infections.

“I got myself bonded when I was fifteen,” Jo says, “sneaked in with the other recruits when they weren’t looking.”

Sam’s face must show the surprise he feels because Jo lets out a short laugh. 

“I always wanted to be just like my mom and dad, you know?” 

Sam nods, though Dean would probably relate to that better than he does. 

“Yeah, momma wasn’t very happy with it,” Jo leans back, unbuckling her leather gears. She places it next to her and rolls up her cotton shirt. There is a nasty looking splotches of yellow and green that will turn black and blue by tomorrow. Sam winces in sympathy.

“ ‘s not like she could do anything about it though, not like I can unbond myself, or whatever.” Jo yawns, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. Sam holds up some cream for her ribs and she nods for him to go on. 

By the time he finishes addressing all her wounds, she is dozing off. He turns to get her some blankets when a surprisingly strong grip stops him.

“Sam,” she says seriously, eyes wide, “I need you to tell a Captain,...” 

“Yeah?”

“No, tell only Captain Singer that we were ambushed-” 

Sam swallows. 

“And also tell him that the raider knew our routes,” Jo looks fearful now, all traces of sleep gone. For the first time, Sam can really see how young she is. “Someone spilled our secrets to our enemies.”

-

The very next day, after all the Gale Riders have poured in, the Six-Wing Captains follow with colorful banners from each of the Wings. Sam has never really seen a gathering of riders to this extent- before. There must be at least fifty riders to each Captain; Sam has never realized just how large the whole of Sky Riders is. All the empty lots near the barracks have been filled with dragons of various sizes and shapes and colors, from the smallest Sky Dragon to the largest Wyrms. Sam spots Bobby’s Rumsfeld with the other Wyrms, with a serious expression that mirrors his rider’s.

The sky above the barracks and the palace and the city are flecked with dragons as well; some are getting to know the young dragons of the new recruits, other are play-fighting, diving in and out of the chilly winter clouds. Most of the new recruits, accustomed to usually having the entire place to themselves, have taken to hiding out in corners and forming circles among themselves, seeking protection from their friends. There are a few brave riders, though, that approach the older riders to introduce themselves and to ask about the current state of Brell’s defenses, and if it is true that this winter is going to be one of the worst winters for the riders.

“Look, there goes Prince Raphael,” Brady points. Sam stifles a laugh at his friend’s rudeness and tries to not attract any attention. The most injured of the Gale Riders from yesterday have been treated, assigned a bed to rest, broken bones splinted and bandaged up, and the senior healers have announced that the healer’s station is to be closed for the duration of the Meeting of the Riders, capitalization included. 

Even the daily exercise and training regiment of the newest riders seem to have paused for the day, which Dean took as the golden opportunity to sleep in. Too bad he missed Captain Alastair’s Blitz Riders flying in, early in the morning. 

Jess pokes around Sam to see Prince Raphael and his Cloud Riders marching in. A great, deep viridian banner flies above them; it depicts a dragon twisting it’s great serpentine body around a cloud. Prince Raphael’s Guardian casts a shadow that envelops the whole march of the Cloud Riders when it flies over them. Its scales are deeper than the color of emeralds and they shine bright spots of green light all around.

As the Cloud Riders go past, some of the riders raise their hands when they see Sam’s green healer’s band tied around his apprentice’s robe, identical to the ones that the Cloud Riders are sporting. Sam returns the sentiment with a salute and a smile.

“It looks like you have the best seat in the house,” a voice says behind Sam. Sam fumbles his apology (which has become almost automatic at this point, though it wasn’t as if it was his fault that he was so tall) when he sees Ruby behind him. 

She carelessly lodges herself between Sam and Jess; the crowd isn’t thick enough to excuse how close she is to Sam. The soft swell of her breasts presses up close to Sam’s arm and he doesn’t know how he can pull away and still maintain his politeness. Sam can tell that Brady is trying really hard to hold in his cackle.

“Um, sorry?” Sam offers with a shrug that’s more of an attempt to get her to let go of his arm. Ruby looks up at him with a face that should only reserved for viewing puppies and ducklings.

“Well, aren’t you cute?” She says in a way that somehow manages to sound both endearing and condescending at the same time. She clings on.

“Where’s your brother?” Ruby asks nonchalantly. She cranes her neck to see the last of the Cloud Riders pass by. 

“Sleeping, probably,” Sam tells her. 

Ruby snorts and Sam tries hard not to frown at her. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t have anything against him,” Ruby says at his frown. “It’s just that…”

Ruby pauses as the crowd around them cheers when Prince Raphael marches past. His head is held high and he doesn’t spare anyone a glance or a smile. Sam would think that the Captain in charge of the healer riders would be more friendly. He doesn’t envy anyone who has to put up with Raphael’s bedside manners.

“It’s just what?” Sam asks over the clapping and the cheering.

“He’s a Guardian rider,” Ruby says, as if that should explain everything. His confusion must have shown on his face because she takes a moment to explain.

“You know, like it or not, all Guardian riders are held to higher standards,” Ruby looks at Sam in a way that makes Sam feel like she’s looking down at him, which is quite frankly, something that Sam is not used to.

“It sucks but it’s the truth,” Ruby blows a strand of hair out of her face with a puff of breath, “Give it a few years. He’s gonna be a Lieutenant, or if he’s lucky, a Captain.”

Huh. Sam’s never really thought about that before. He knows that being a rider to a Guardian dragon is basically like being given a pass to the front of the line for riches and glory- everything that everyone in the Sky Riders dream of. It’s just that Sam’s never been able to marry the image of a proud and strong Guardian rider with that of his brother, who usually sleeps until the sun is well over the horizon. 

“The sooner he starts acting like one, the better it’ll be for everyone.” Or maybe it’s just that Sam doesn’t want to think of Dean as a great hero-to-be. Even though Sam has done very well at the healer’s station and the senior healers have been talking about trading in his brown apprentice’s robe for a full-fledged green healer’s robe, Sam is never going to be able to follow Dean once he gets assigned to a Wing. Dean will fly off with his Impala and Sam will be forced to stay at the Capital, tending to the wounded and the sick. 

It unsettles Sam’s stomach. 

“Ah, look!” Jess’s bright voice startles Sam out of his maudlin thoughts. 

Ruby and Sam both turn to look at where she is pointing. At the far end of the line of Cloud Riders is a deep blue banner, magnified tenfold by the shiny silver scales of the colossal Guardian dragon prowling behind it. It is Prince Michael’s Sword, the dragon that every child fantasizes about riding. Prince Michael sits a top of his dragon, looking just as much of a legend as Sam has heard him to be. While the black leather rider’s gear has the tendency to make the riders look more provocative than anything, he wears it like he would wear the royal crown. 

The Echo Riders that trail behind him are just like Prince Michael; they walk with careful, measured steps, shoulders thrown proudly wide. Their riding leathers are spotless and perfect, though worn,and even Sam can tell that they take good care of their equipment. The strongest of all riders. Dean will probably be assigned to the Echo Wing. 

Prince Michael surveys the mix of riders and pages and other workers as he passes by with an unreadable look on his face. If Prince Raphael had made Sam feel ignored, Prince Michael makes him feel judged, and he isn’t even near Sam. The others must feel the same because there isn’t much of a cheer for the Echo Riders but a silence born out of respect and maybe fear. The crowd stumbles back a few steps to make room for Sword as he passes by them but if the dragon notices, he does not show it.

When Prince Michael and Sword get near Sam, he suddenly feels the urge to step forward, towards the Guardian dragon. He is horrified at his own thoughts and to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, Sam takes a step back, barely noticing the offended cries from whoever is standing behind him.

And just then, Sword, who has been seeing nothing but the path in front of him turns his head and meets Sam’s eyes.  
Sword’s eyes are a dangerous polished silver, just like the rest of his body. Their gaze pierces Sam’s heart and it freezes up something that is not quite fear; it feels more like anticipation. Sam wants to do something with his hands, maybe reach out to touch the dragon so he bunches up his robes in his fist instead. 

There is a deep rumbling sound that comes from Sword’s throat like he is about to let out a roar or spit fire - Sam really hopes it’s not the latter. Distantly, he feels himself take a step forward; when had Ruby let of of his arm? Sam can’t hear anything else other than the deep content noise from Sword, not the hushed sounds of the people around him, not the voice of Brady calling his name. Sam doesn’t notice the way the procession has stopped because Sword has stopped. He does not notice the way Prince Michael is looking down at him, his expression still unreadable. 

Suddenly, Sword breaks the gaze, turning away. Sam blinks. He exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he’d beenholding.

Everyone is staring at him.

Echo Riders march on as if there was nothing unusual about it and Sam lets his fist slowly unclench from the robe. He can feel Ruby staring at him and he stubbornly refuses to look at her direction.

“Woah, Sam,” Brady says besides him, “is Prince Michael like hot for you or something?”

Sam laughs and punches him in the arm. He dutifully ignores the loud beating of his heart, the nervous shake of his hands.

-

The meeting is held in what was formerly Prince Lucifer’s suite. It is the only suite in the palace large enough to accommodate Michael’s Sword and Raphael’s Virgil, though Alastair and Lilith have opted to leave their Guardians outside to do whatever it is that battled-hardened dragons doin their free time. Bobby’s own Rumsfeld had preferred to mingle with the newly hatched dragons and had left his rider to his own devices. That blasted dragon can not be counted on in the best of times. 

Alastair was sprawled out behind Lucifer’s desk already when Bobby had come in, as if he owned the damn thing. He had heard that Alastair had claimed this suite to be his own and that the Steward had allowed it graciously. As if Bobby needs more proof that Alastair was deep in Crowley’s pockets. 

Ellen meets Bobby’s eyes when she walks in, giving him a small nod. She looks well for someone whose daughter’s unit has been viciously ambushed just two days ago, though that iss Ellen through and through. Give the woman a lemon and she is more likely to punch you in the eyes with it. 

Michael calls the attention of the Captains with a slight clearing of his throat. Raphael is seated to the right of him, Alastair to his left, and Lilith to Alastair’s left. It leaves Bobby and Ellen at the furthest corner of the table.

When Michael has the attention of all the Captains, he stands.

“This meeting has been called forth by Captain Ellen Harvelle of the Gale Riders,” he starts but stops when the heavy door to the suite opens.

The official Royal Steward to the Throne and the Keeper of Brell has apparently seen it fit to grace them with his presence.

“Can we help you with something, your Highness?” Raphael’s deep, unconcerned voice echoes in the room. He addresses the Steward like he addresses everyone else. It does not seem to matter what the actual words are, be it ‘your highness’ or ‘lieutenant’ or ‘page boy;’ there is a common thread of disdain in which he talks with to everyone. Bobby supposes it is a certain type of equality at least. 

Crowley smiles that sickly sweet smile that can charm the devil out of his pants.

“Not at all, Captain Raphael. I hope I am not intruding” - which, he was - “but all I wish to do is make sure that the borders of our kingdom are as well protected as it should be.”

It is common knowledge among the riders, or at least the higher ranking ones, that Crowley is doing exact opposite that. He has been systematically decreasing the funding for the Sky Riders, sending them on useless errands to neighboring kingdoms under the guise of ceremony when their time could be used elsewhere. 

Raphael’s forehead crinkles a fraction at Crowley’s insistence of calling him a Captain, and not a Prince.

“Of course,” Michael says and he does not wait for Crowley to seat himself before he continues.

“As I was saying, we have been called by Captain Harvelle to discuss the recent development in border activities,” Michael points to the map laid out in front of them. It is a map of Brell. Several well-known trade routes have been marked with tiny models of flags and x’s of various colors.

“Now, it has been established that there is increased traffic on the Southern and the Western routes, and in the last few months, there has been a rise in bandit activity as well, as we predicted.”

Michael pauses and waits for the murmur of agreement.

“And in order to monitor this, we’d assigned a more frequent patrol by the Gale Riders along these corridors,” he gestures to the roads on the map, “And the said Gale Riders were stationed in Lehigh Valley so that they had better access to those routes.”

“However, just two days ago, Lehigh Valley was attacked, and according to Captain Harvelle here,” Michael looks at Ellen, “the raiders were no ordinary bandits: they were heavily trained and armed.”

Ellen takes that as her cue to take over.

“That’s right,” she says. “There have been no civilian casualties so far, but the attack has put many of my riders out of commission.”

“And if I may interrupt,” Crowley leans in, “why exactly is this a cause for alarm? To me, all it means is that the Gale Riders are simply… lacking.”

Bobby admires the way Ellen holds herself back, he truly does. Ellen has never been the most patient of the Captains, her rage usually fueling her mouth better than dry hay with fire. 

“Your Highness,” she says firmly, “I understand that you are a stranger to the strategies of Sky Riders, but you must at least understand that my Wing, the Gale Riders are not a combat unit. We value speed and stealth above strength and combat.”

Crowley hums and Ellen turns back to the Captains. 

“Now for those of you that do not need a primer on the basic functions of the different Wings, the Lehigh Valley outpost was one of the best-kept secrets in my unit. The location and the flight patterns were all on need-to-know basis.”

“This can only mean one thing,” Ellen says with a certain finality, “there is a leak in our ranks and I am sure that the my Wing isn’t the only one with it.” 

“Now, are you sure that the raiders weren’t just simply lucky?” Crowley interrupts, yet again. Bobby is getting real sick of him. A politician, especially one such as Crowley, has no place in a meeting like this,  
Ellen’s nostrils flare in a way that promises Bobby that he will be dragged to a tavern after this to get drunker than he has ever been. Which is saying something. 

“Them getting lucky does not explain the fact that they were trained,” she say, words forced out of her mouth like bolts from a crossbow. 

“Well, Captain, like you said, your unit is not a combat unit. Perhaps it is that the Gale Riders were simply no match for even simple bandits.” 

Bobby has to reach out and grab Ellen’s wrist before she can launch herself at Crowley. 

“Or maybe, it is that you are not being objective,” Crowley continues, unaware of the tension mounting in the room that only Bobby seems to be aware of. Michael and Raphael look displeased while Alastair and Lilith look bored. “As I understand it, your daughter was injured in the attack.”

Saying that Jo was injured is an exaggeration. She had sustained worse injuries during training. 

“Your Highness,” Bobby says, “I assure you, Captain Harvelle is not letting what happened to her daughter keep her from being objective.”

“Very well, Captain Singer,” Crowley hums, that smile still on his lips.

“Thank you, Captain Harvelle,” Michael announces, his voice strained, “We shall make sure to keep your warning in mind.”

“Now, with almost half of the Gale Riders out of commission, the Western and the Southern routes are wide open to attack.”

Bobby knows what Michael is saying. They are yet again being forced to spread their troops thin when they possibly can’t anymore. His Fog Riders are already working double time and he is losing more men to injury and illness. The other Wings are in no better shape; the Echo Riders have abandoned their usual post at the Capital to lend a hand on the borders, the Blitz Riders are covering at least a third more area than they should be, and the Hail Riders have all but given up sleep in order to combat the encroaching raiders.

A heavy silence falls around the table.

“I suppose there is one solution,” Lilith speaks out. Bobby does not like the shrewd look in her eyes, not one bit.

“What do you suggest, Captain?” Michael asks.

“Well, as I understand it, there have been three Guardian riders from this year’s recruits.” Oh no.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting that we send the new recruits out now,” Bobby frowns, something he’s been doing too often nowadays, “They aren’t even assigned to a Wing yet.”

“I’ve heard excellent reports on this year’s recruits’ progress, Captain Singer,” Lilith says, “And you know that we simply cannot afford to spare any more riders.”

Bobby knows that. But they are simply too inexperienced, too young. The promise that he has made to John Winchester all those years ago flashes in his mind. Dean Winchester is going to be at the front of the line to be sent out into the cold, hostile winter, he knows. So instead Bobby turns to Raphael.

“And have you any Cloud Riders to spare for this?” he asks. Bobby winces at his own hostile tone but it cannot be helped.

Raphael shakes his head. “I do not.”

“That should not be a problem,” Alastair says. Of course he would agree with Lilith. “The new dragons should now be large enough to accommodate one more person to their squad.”

“I didn’t think we had enough healers here to spare any for this,” Ellen says.

“We do not.” Raphael agrees, “But sacrifices must be made.”

This doesn’t sit right in Bobby’s gut, which he has long trusted over all his other senses. Something is happening and Bobby suspects that it is all Crowley’s doing. When he looks over, Crowley meets his eyes, grinning in a way that tells Bobby that he is very satisfied with what is happening here. Bobby just doesn’t understand what sending the kids to a certain doom is going to achieve. 

“Then it is agreed?” Michael asks. It is not, Bobby wants to fight this tooth and nail but he has nothing that will convince them that this is a bad idea. He just hopes that Dean is as strong as John was, not only physically, but mentally as well. 

The others nod and Bobby’s grip on Ellen’s wrist gets even tighter.

“Excellent,” Crowley says, standing up, “I am sure that Brell’s borders are in capable hands.”


	6. Burnt Oak

Sam gets a single day of reprieve before he is expected to leave for the West. Just like that, he goes from apprentice-healer to Walker Healer, a title which had been no doubt fabricated on the spot for the unsuspecting healers suddenly assigned to a rider unit. Other healers had complained, some had outright quit, saying that when they had signed up to be a healer, they were not signing up for plunging head first into battle. Though the healers’ mantra is to help anyone in need, be they nobles or enemy soldiers, Sam understands why the healers had balked at the idea of accompanying riders who had, at best, only a few months of training and no real experience.

But Sam goes willingly. His initial worry of being stuck at the Capital while his brother risked his life has turned out to be for naught and even better, whoever was in charge of hurriedly formulating the units has placed Sam in Dean’s own unit. Just for that, Sam would have gone even if his title was something like Official Dragon Scrubber. (Sam has seen Dean trying to give Impala a wash; it’s amazing how much filth dragon scales can hold) And it is perhaps the most fortunate that Jess is going with them as well, though Brady had been assigned to Meg’s team.

Dean chooses to spend his last day in the barracks with the smiths. He’d always complained about the state of the swords that were given to the recruits and he’d told Sam that he would not go into battle without a proper sword. Bobby has promised them that the area they will be assigned to is a safe one, relatively clean of raiders, and that the simple presence of dragons will deter any other bandits. But everyone knows the truth- no roads in Brell are safe anymore.

As for Sam, he chooses to spend the day wandering the market looking for supplies. He needs a new coat- while the one he is currently wearing is fine, it stands no chance against the harsh winds that he will be facing in flight. He stops by the bookseller for some reading material, even though it’s a bit pricey. He figures that having a book of dragon anatomy and health will come in useful someday.

As Sam makes his way back to the barracks, hands heavier with his purchased items but purse lighter, he sees various herbs and ingredients being sold in the streets- the Capital is truly the center of trade for Brell, there are plants and leaves of things that Sam has only read about in Missouri’s books. Even the quality of simple peppermint is far superior than the ones that are stocked in the cupboards of the healer’s station. 

“Is this frost weed?” Sam asks the merchant, poking at a particular bunch of white leaves. The merchant nods, eyes delighted at the prospect of a customer that knows his trade.

“Indeed it is, my lad, hand plucked by the acolytes from the Northern Temple, guaranteed to numb burns from a hundred different kinds of fires.” 

Sam inspects the leaves for freshness and any damage before he empties his wallets to the merchant. There is no doubt that the riders will provide him with a basic kit, but it always pays to be prepared. That’s what Sam tells himself as he starts bartering down the prices of root berries. 

Sleep does not come to Sam easily that night. He lies awake in the dark thinking about nothing and everything in particular, thoughts racing from the weather to new coats to recipes for frost salve to fighting to dragons to Dean. He figures it’s kinda like nerves except he has a sinking feeling of _not right_ that’s making his stomach feel hollow despite the rather uncharacteristically large dinner that was forced on him (people kept giving him extra food like it was going to make everything better). 

Sam tries counting backwards from one hundred, then tries counting sheep, and finally opts to stare at the ceiling when he tires of counting. It’s as old and dusty as the first night he had spent here and Sam wonders if he’s going to see this particular ceiling ever again. It’s a strange thing to get attached to - an old, ugly ceiling. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, Sam almost succeeds in drifting off, mind still stuck between reciting the bones of the human finger and what the change in the coloration of dragon scales could mean. But Dean shuffles in the bed next to him. He slips from beneath his covers and in the darkness, Sam sees Dean’s silhouette fumble on a coat and boots.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks.

“Gods,” Dean jumps, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I couldn’t fall asleep.” Sam resists adding ‘because you of, you jerk.’

Dean sits back on the edge of the bed, staring at Sam, or so he assumes anyway. The moon is hiding behind the clouds and it makes for a particularly dark night. 

“Where you going?” Sam asks again, sitting up on the bed, any trace of sleep gone.

Instead of answering, Dean shrugs and sighs.

“Oh come on, it’s not like I haven’t noticed you sneaking off into the night every few weeks.” Though Sam had always thought that Dean was going off to blow off some steam with that leggy brunette blacksmith with the pretty doe eyes and lashes longer than his pinky. 

When Sam tells Dean this, Dean snorts and denies it. Sam believes him because it’s not like Dean has been a prude about this sort of thing in the past anyway. So instead, Sam shrugs on his new coat with the fur lining and squishes his feet into his boots.

“Well, if you’re not having some passionate tryst with a smith, then there is nothing to hide, right?”

Dean grumps and mumbles and shoots Sam some dirty looks but in the end he gives up and says fine. Even though Dean insists it isn’t a sex thing, Sam kinda feels like a major cockblock.

 

The torches that the pages have lit for the riders are no more than faintly glowing piles of ash. They don’t show the way well but instead stand out in the dark like some sort of beacon. Sam doesn’t need to see the way to know where they’re going anyway. It’s a private little corner wedged between the west training field and the blue barracks, infamous for being a lovers’ spot. Dean tells Sam to shut up at that.

When they get there, the lone lamp that stands tucked away in the trees illuminates the whole corner in a faint blue. The story was that the lamps used to be all over the riders’ barracks but had to be pulled out because they couldn’t afford to maintain it anymore. All except the one in their forgotten corner. It all sounds terribly romantic.

The figure that stands under the lamp is cloaked but that doesn’t mean that Sam can’t recognize him. After all, he has seen the very same silhouette in Lawrence many times before.

“It’s Cas you’ve been sneaking out to meet?” Sam theatrically whispers to Dean. Dean shoves him and Sam laughs.

“Sam,” Castiel greets and pulls his hood down. He looks exactly like how he had looked in Lawrence, tired and scruffy, but firm.

“Hey Cas,” Sam says and thumps Castiel on the back. “It’s been a while.”

“So it has.” Castiel stares at Sam. It’s a bit unnerving. Dean coughs.

“Er, so, Cas,” he says, “it turns out that we’re going to be shipping out tomorrow.”

Castiel drops his gaze on Sam and swivels to Dean so fast that Sam almost winces.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks, his voice like gravel. 

“Um,” Dean hesitates and scratches the back of his neck, “A few days back, a bunch of Gale Riders got injured and now they’re really short on riders…”

“They can’t do that,” Castiel says with such a force and absolute certainty that Sam wonders for a moment what exactly Castiel knows that gives him such a conviction.

“Turns out they can.”

“But you haven’t even been a rider for a year.” Castiel’s eyes are wide now. Dean shrugs.

“Well, I guess the riders are really desperate nowadays, with everyone getting sick.” Sam nods along with Dean.

“This will not do,” Castiel says. “You are too inexperienced.”

“Come on,” Dean says lightly, “I don’t think I’m worse than Garth.” His joke falls flat. Garth isn’t that bad, honestly.

Castiel simply purses his lips before turning to Sam.

“And you?” he asks. “Will you continue your path as a healer?”

Man, Castiel knows Sam all too well if he is asking Sam whether or not he will stay as a healer or change his occupation so that he can follow Dean.

Sam shakes his head.

“Uh, yeah, but I’ve been assigned to Dean’s unit as a Walker Healer so,” Sam’s mouth stumbles around the new title, his face flushing slightly.

“Walker Healer?” Castiel’s eyes narrow dangerously. Sam has never seen him angry before but he can recognize it now. “So the Sky Riders have fallen to sending apprentice healers into dangerous battles?”

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that and Dean steps closer to Sam.

“It’ll be fine Cas, Sam isn’t too bad with a sword if he needs to be, not as good as me, of course.” 

But Castiel shakes his head despite Dean’s insistence.

“I cannot stay long tonight,” Castiel says instead and reaches into the sleeve of his cloak to pull something out. “Perhaps it’s luck that you two will be together at least.”

If Castiel’s voice is bitter, Sam doesn’t say anything about it. Castiel doesn’t seem like the person to believe in luck.

Castiel holds out the object that he has fished out of his cloak. It’s dark and long, maybe the length of Sam’s forearm. It is light, whatever it is, since Castiel is holding it up with only his thumb and index finger. He hold it out to Dean, who takes it.

“Is this a feather?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, “It is a... good luck charm of sorts.”

“Right,” Dean says uncertainly, holding the feather at an arm’s length. He looks a bit weirded out and Castiel shuffles his feet awkwardly.

“It would make me feel better if you had it,” Castiel’s voice is void of any fire he might have had before. 

“For luck?”

“Yes.”

Dean shrugs, tucking the feather away into his belt. It sits there like some sort of a ridiculous short sword. 

“Alright.”

-

Flying with Impala is as incredible as Dean swears it is and maybe more. There must be a difference, though, between being a rider and simply being a passenger. There is a pang of emptiness that Sam can’t explain when he thinks about that. 

The road to Cold Oak is frigid and gray, despite the flying. The trees are empty of their usual vibrance and the few pines found along the road are laden with snow. The trip should take only three days, Dean explains, laying out a map for everyone to see, even with regular breaks and sleep. Captain Singer had said that there was no urgency at Cold Oak, so they aren’t in a hurry. 

The first thing that they do when they land for the night is set up a camp fire. Impala tries to help but ends up blasting the entire log into smithereens. Judging by Dean’s reaction, Impala isn’t too pleased that they end up asking Jessica’s dragon to light the fire. 

_It’s probably because I am too powerful._ Sam imagines Impala saying.

Sam shivers under his new coat, nightfall bringing more cold than the day had, and tries unsuccessfully to thaw his frozen fingers near the fire. It would be the ideal temperature to prepare a salve made out of his packet of frost weed, if he could just get his blasted fingers to move properly. 

“Didn’t you get fancy new gloves with your coat?” Jess teases, sitting down next to him on the log. 

Sam puffs some breath onto his hands and holds them out to the fire. 

“I guess I wasn’t thinking.” Sam answers. He tries not to stammer when she takes her own gloves off and holds his hands. Gods, they must be freezing- her palms feel as if they are burning; they are small and soft with a few blisters from riding her dragon. They are perfect. His heart feels like he’s still up on Impala. 

Jess smiles and rubs his hands between her own even though her knuckles are starting to redden from the cold. He doesn’t know which part of his body is getting warmer faster, his hands or his face (though Dean probably would have said some other part entirely, but Sam tries really hard not to think about that particular bit because he is borrowing one of Dean’s rider pants and it hides nothing).

His hands thaw enough for him to maneuver his fingers around a chopping knife but he decides to push the salve off until tomorrow. He holds Jess’s hands for a long time that night.

The second night, Dean manages to get Impala to light a log without destroying it completely. The fire dances oddly, unlike any other fire that Sam has seen. It also flickers from red to black sometimes. It’s a bit ominous in Sam’s opinion. Nonetheless, he puts a small kettle of water to boil while he chops up the frost weeds, hoping that what he heard about the amazing properties of dragonfire is true.

While Sam prepares the salve, Dean and and few other riders launch into a discussion about Cold Oak and what is to be expected. Dean has been assigned as the leader of the unit officially, but now that they are no longer in the Capital, Jake takes over, being the only rider with actual experience, and Dean lets him without a fight. 

Sam thinks it’s a bit unfair that Jake isn’t a captain simply because he has a Wyrm to Dean’s Guardian. 

On the third night, with only a few more hours of flight left before they reach Cold Oak, Ava nearly breaks down. She is a new rider, just like Dean and Jess, but is softer than both of them. 

“I was going to get married, you know?” Ava says and then blows her nose loudly into a handkerchief. “Before I got drafted.”

Jess nods sympathetically and rubs Ava’s back.

“Now it’s been like five months and we’ve been writing,” Ava sniffles, “but he doesn’t even know that I’m going to Cold Oak because I haven’t had a chance to tell him. Oh Gods, what if something happens to me and…”

“You’re going to be fine,” Jess says soothingly. “We are all going to be fine.”

“It’s only a routine patrol,” Jake reassures her from the other side. Ava sniffles again and wipes away the last of her tears.

“Hey Sam, you’re not gonna break down on me too, are you?” Dean says to Sam with the corner of his mouth. Sam pushes Dean away.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

-

Cold Oak is not what Sam had expected.

Sam is used to hard winters. Lawrence sees its fair share of bad harvests and harsh storms, but they always get through in the end, with friends helping neighbors, inviting the less fortunate to their hearth. It is by virtue of selflessness and kindness that Lawrence prospers. When John had failed to come back that one fateful year, many of Sam and Dean and John’s friends had stepped up, nearly half the town volunteering to take Dean and Sam in until they were old enough and help them get back up on their feet. They had declined, of course; John had raised the boys to be independent and Dean had declared himself old enough to take care of Sam at age 20. 

Sam understands, on an intellectual level, that not all towns have it so lucky, filled with kind-hearted people who would open their doors to those who needed it.

It still catches Sam off guard, the level of cold-disinterest and the outright hostility from the residents of Cold Oak. Sure, it was only a few months ago that Sam had been more or less in the same boat with them, his head filled the distrust and the animosity with no clear vision of what exactly he was hating. But now he realizes what it feels like to be on the other side of that.The riders are just as powerless as the people are, they wield no political power - not anymore - and they have fallen far from their honored perch, scraping the bottom of the jar for the last bit of stale salves and deal with being provided with sub-par supplies. They follow their leaders into dangerous battles on the orders of politicians and the rumors of bad news and misinformation. 

And yet the public still blames them.

Sam wonders if John ever had to deal with the same sort of feelings, the awful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and his heart.

Dean walks side by side with Sam, his hand a comforting spot of warmth on Sam’s shoulder.

“Not a very friendly town, yeah?” Dean says to Jake.

Jake frowns and shakes his head.

“I’ve been stationed here before, and…” he pauses and glances around the quiet town. Not a single chimney is smoking, despite the winter chill. “It’s never been like this.”

There is a tense, quiet sort of unease in the air, like they’re walking through a cemetery. There is not a single sound -besides their own: the sound of old ice crunching under their boots and the scraping sound that the dragons make as they walk into the town. The only signs that the town hasn’t actually been abandoned are the freshly abandoned tools on the roads, buckets near the wells, goods still out in the stalls, someone’s cup of tea still steaming on a porch. 

There is no one out in the streets. Doors fly shut. Curtains are drawn heavy.

“Why are they hiding?” Jess asks Jake. 

Jake shakes his head and signals for Lily to go up in the air and see what is happening. 

“Well, something’s definitely up,” Lily says when she finally comes back down. She leads them to the other side of the town, and as they walk down the main road, windows snap shut.

Cold Oak is a dreary-looking town, the -weathered-gray houses and shops have probably seen better days. Or perhaps it is the absolute quiet, the seeming absence of any living soul besides their unit that gives it such image. Sam can easily picture children playing around the main roads while their parents and merchants occupy the streets. Some of the porches and roofs look in need of repair while others are better maintained- it is no different in Lawrence.

But it is does not prepare Sam for what awaits them at the end of the road.

Snow has started falling slowly, the kind that Sam can tell will turn into a full blown blizzard soon. He has been expecting it- the sky has been dark all day. It covers the silent houses of Cold Oak in white: the roofs, the stairs, even the abandoned cup of tea that has cooled off and no longer steaming. 

And yet it makes no difference to the darkened, charred ruins of Cold Oak they find.

On the other side of the town is nothing. There are only burnt husks of buildings for more than a mile- the majority of Cold Oak lies in ashes.

The smell is the first thing that Sam notices even before he sees it. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t noticed it before- the smell of fire and ash and destruction. It is the smell of the pit in which the bodies of plague victims are thrown. It lies thick and heavy in the air, lingers, despite the winds that attempt to blow it away. There is a certain metallic tang to it that Sam can’t quite place, but it smells familiar, like the copper taste of blood or a slip of metal between his teeth. 

“What the hell happened here?” Jake asks.

They walk through the wreckage. Everything’s in smoldering heaps of wet ash; a few skeletal structures remain that haven’t quite noticed their own demise. Andy nearly hurls when they find their first body, black and twisted up from the flames. Jake and Dean drags it out from the rafter it’s pinned under. 

The riders and Sam take it upon themselves to search the ruined structures for more bodies, the dragons clearing away fallen columns with their tails and talons. Men, women, children, animals - the fire has touched them equally.

“This is no natural fire,” Jake says after studying a piece of charred wood from the wreckage. 

“And these people have not been killed by fire alone,” Sam replies. Some of the bodies, the ones that still have flesh on them, are sporting deep wounds, gashes on their chests and arms and legs.

“Made by a blade or a sword.”

“Do you think it was the raiders that did this?” Jess asks and Sam shrugs.

“I’ve never seen a raid this vicious,” Jake says. “They usually just take what they want and leave. They don’t burn half the town into ashes, or where else would they return to next year?”

“Whoever they are, they have no mercy or honor.”

There are a total of five corpses among the dead that are too small to be full-grown men. Sam closes his eyes. He feels useless, helpless. All he can do is pray that they were granted painless deaths. 

They arrange the bodies out in the road, not sure what to do with them. 

“I wonder why no one from the town has come to claim them yet,” Lily wonders out loud.

“It is because we were afraid,” a voice answers from behind them. “We still are.”

There is an elderly man, shoulders covered with a heavy blanket made out of some large animal skin. Behind him, what Sam can only assume is the rest of the Cold Oak, stands, apprehension spreading across everyone’s faces like some sort of virulent pox. Many of them are pale-faced, not from the lack of sun but from the lack of sleep, and fear. 

Jake steps up to the elder, back straight and eyes kind. He towers over the elder.

“Lieutenant Jake Talley of the Blitz Riders,” he says, extending a hand towards the elder. The elder takes it. His hands are spotted with liver spots but his grip is no less firm.

“And I am Elder Thomas of Cold Oak. I hope you will excuse us for the cold shoulder, Lieutenant. As you can see, we have very good reason to shut our doors to any strangers.”

“It is not a problem,” Jake replies easily. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long ago was the attack?”

“Only two days ago,” Thomas says, grimacing. He looks back to the people that he leads. “We’ve yet to have a proper time for mourning and collecting our families.”

“Do you know who was behind the attack?” Jake’s voice is gentle.

“Aye,” Thomas lowers his voice so that only the riders can hear him. “But that is best discussed out of earshot.”

“Of course.”

“Today, I think,” Thomas sighs, “we must put aside for our friends and families. Other things can be discussed later.”

Jake nods and gestures to the rest of the unit. “Anything we can do to help, you need only ask.”

“Thank you for your offer, Lieutenant, but we must take care of the dead with our own hands now. You have already done so much to help.”

For every body on the street, there are twenty people mourning. It’s as if a dam has broken somewhere and the people come rushing out of from behind their tightly locked doors to the streets, pouring out endlessly. Sam feels dizzy so he stands against Impala; his deep rumbling settles Sam’s heart. 

“Hey, you okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, it’s just,” Sam says, “this isn’t going to be just some routine patrol.” 

-

The last passage of the dead is held that night. Bodies are identified, named; children are paired up with their parents in death, lovers with lovers, families with families. The streets of the destroyed Cold Oak are cleared away to make way for the pyres, and though Elder Thomas insists that the duty falls to the people of Cold Oak, the riders help.

The fires burn all night.

The riders manage to find a relatively undamaged, empty building to use as their outpost for the duration of their stay. There had originally been a rider outpost on the outskirts of Cold Oak, according to Jake, but it had been destroyed in the attack. The building is a storehouse, but whatever goods that may have been stored away are long gone, stolen by the attackers or squirreled away by the townspeople. But it is still a roof over their heads and four walls to keep the winds out so Sam doesn’t complain. The only thing that bothers him is the stench of ashes and burnt flesh that clings to the building. 

Sam doesn’t sleep a wink but still dreams of the bodies and the fire, the dead, the children.

He watches the sky out of a tiny window in the back of the storehouse; it had stopped snowing some hours ago and the night is full of stars, not a cloud in sight. As the colors gradually pale from black to blue to a chilly winter white, Sam feels an unexplainable pang of loss like he’s lost something important to him but can’t remember what.

He is far too grateful for the quiet knocks that come as the sun rises.

There is a child standing at the door. He can’t be more than twelve years old, red cheeks still round with baby fat, chapped from the cold. He looks tired, just like the rest of Cold Oak.

“Excuse me,” the kid says, “is this where the riders are staying?”

Sam nods and makes way for the kid to come in. The other riders are awake now, though their eyes are still weary and sleep crusted. Exhaustion seems to be something that everyone catches at Cold Oak.

“What’s your name, kid?” Dean asks when the kid sits down where they have cleared away their bedrolls. 

“It’s Michael.”

“So, Michael, what are you doing here?”

“It’s...” Michael hesitates, “it’s Asher, my little brother.”

“Oh,” Dean rubs the back of his neck uncertainly, “is your brother uh...”

“No, no, Gods no,” Michael’s eyes are saucer wide. “He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dean lets out a relieved sigh and Sam shoots him a small smile. 

“I know that, um, you guys have a healer, right?” Michael asks, looking around as if trying to spot the healer among the riders.

“We do,” Dean says, eyes flicking over to Sam.

Michael takes a deep inhale. “It’s my brother, Asher. We live near the towns square because my mom runs the inn over there but Asher was sleeping over at his friend’s house when they attacked, I mean, he managed to get away but he got hurt and our town healer didn’t make it and he’s just getting sicker and-”

“Woah there,” Dean says, stopping Michael in the middle of his rant. Michael looks up at Dean, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Please, you gotta help him.”

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is kind, a gentle tone that you wouldn’t expect from a twenty-something-year-old rider who likes to drink and curses too much. He has always been good with children. “Listen Michael, you know I got a little brother of my own so I know how it feels when they get hurt.”

“In fact, you see that tall guy with the stupid hair over there?” Dean points and Michael nods. “That’s my little brother Sammy.” Sam snorts at the nickname but waves to Michael nonetheless. 

“And he’s the best damn healer I’ve ever seen.” Sam swallows thickly- there is no need to tell Michael that Sam’s only been a healer for a few months, made a full-fledged one by necessity. 

“Does that mean you’ll help Asher?” Michael is smiling now, though his smile is a slight one.

Sam nods. “Of course.”

-

Michael’s mother’s inn is packed to the brim, not with travellers but with survivors, those whose homes have been burned down in the attack. They are staying free of charge, she explains, as it is too late in the winter for them to be without a bed, and the town has agreed that new housing will have to be pushed off until spring because the ground is too frozen for any kind of building. 

“We must do all we can to help out,” she says. 

Michael and his brother Asher are sharing a small office that used to belong to their mother. There are two tiny beds crammed into the corner, their belongings overflowing from the small dresser to the floors. Asher is only a tiny lump swaddled in blankets on the bed. Even from the door, Sam can see that Asher is shivering.

Michael sets up a small stool next to the bed that Sam can sit on. It’s not very tall, making Sam’s legs bend awkwardly. Sam puts down his medicine kit on the floor next to him and reaches out. Asher is nearly comatose-, deep in the kind of sleep that is neither restful nor long.

His forehead is hot, burning up from a fever. But Michael had told him that Asher was injured during the attack so the fever is probably from the whatever infection is eating through Asher’s body. Sam gently coaxes the blanket from Asher so that he can see exactly where and how he is injured.

Sam does not like what he sees.

When he was still apprenticing under Missouri at Lawrence, he and Missouri were frequently called away to the rider’s outpost there, to help when some illness broke out or when the number of injured was greater than what the healers at the outpost could handle. There was this one instance some years ago when the riders had captured a few raiders and Missouri was called to treat them. There were no broken legs or arms, no lacerations or cuts from swords, but the riders were covered in black burns, whole body parts consumed by fire that burned impossibly hot and longe.

Asher’s black arm is exactly the picture of dragonfire burn. His skin is dry and cracked, and Sam can see the blackness eating away at his shoulder. A burn from dragonfire will consume a person whole, until there is nothing left of them but a twisted-up imitation of themselves. It isn’t a fever that’s coursing through Asher, it is the heat of dragonfire, radiating up from his arm and into his veins. 

Sam curses out loud. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Michael asks Sam, worried.

“This is,” Sam doesn’t know if he should tell Michael the truth. He swallows and tucks the blanket over Asher. “This isn’t something that can be cured.”

Michael looks like he is about to cry. “But you said that you can help him!”

“You have to help him!”

“Listen Michael,” Sam says, as soothingly as he can, “I never said that I wasn’t going to help him. I’m going to try my best to save you brother.”

Michael nods, his eyes full of tears.

“But this isn’t something you can walk away from unscathed.”

And this is why Dean is always better with children. But Michael is a strong kid, determined to save his brother. He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his dirty shirt and nods again, expression fierce. 

“Okay, right,” Michael says. 

Sam steps out to find Michael’s mother. There is only one thing a healer can do to stop the spread of dragonfire and that is to cut off the affected areas entirely. Asher is only nine, ten, at best and he can’t fight off the fire as long as adults can. It’s not much of a decision but it must be made quickly. 

She cries. “My poor baby,” She says, sniffling. But she gives Sam the go-ahead in the end. Sam guesses that he has about seven hours before the burn reaches Asher’s shoulder and that is too close to the heart for Sam’s liking. There is no telling what else the fire is doing to Asher’s body.

Sam returns to the storehouse they are staying in. He needs an assistant, a saw, and whatever else. He has never performed an amputation before, let alone on a kid. His heart beats painfully, about to burst, and he feels like hurling even though his stomach is empty.

Dean looks up from his conversation with Jake. 

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, brows furrowing, “what’s wrong?”

“Asher, Michael’s brother.” 

“Yeah, is the kid gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replies and suddenly it hits him. Dragonfire. The attack- the one that Asher had barely escaped from- it’s no ordinary ransacking. It means that whoever raided Cold Oak has a dragon, a rider. A rogue rider? Perhaps one of their own? One of the riders who deserted?

“Sam?”

“Dean,” Sam says, “Dean, Asher, he’s been burned with dragonfire.” 

“Dragonfire?” Jake asks, “are you sure?”

“Yes- I’ve seen people afflicted with dragonfire before - it’s not something you easily forget.”

“But why would Asher have dragonfire?” Dean wonders, though he knows the answer. “Do you think a rider attacked Cold Oak?”

“Someone who is a rider or has a dragon.” Jake says firmly, “We must report this to the Capital immediately.” 

“I cannot leave,” Sam shakes his head. “I promised Michael that I would help Asher.”

“Don’t worry. Lily is a fast rider - she can carry the message to the capital herself.”

Without any delay, Jake gives Sam a pat on the back and moves out to find Lily. Sam lets out a shaky sigh. He gets a very strong, and very appropriate feeling that they are in way over their heads. 

“Hey, you okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, it’s just,” Sam rubs his eyes. They are dry, probably red from not sleeping. “I need to find a bone saw.”

“Oh,” Dean frowns, “For Asher, right? Man, that’s tough.”

“Yeah.”

-

It turns out, to no one’s surprise, that Cold Oak doesn’t have a stock of medical grade equipment. They do, however, manage to find a relatively clean and sharp saw for metal and it will have to do. Its lack of rust and Dean declaring it in good shape is enough for Sam. Jess agrees to assist him and they quickly gather some woods to heat the water with so that they can boil some cloths. Impala lights the fire for them and Sam hopes it won’t affect the dragonfire in Asher. Dragonfire is still a largely uncharted territory for healers and Sam is flying blind but he hopes that it will be beneficial. 

While Jess is disinfecting the cloths and bandages, Sam busies himself with some numbing herbs. He has a vial of fainting water in his medicine kit just for occasions like this but Asher will need more than that after the surgery - if everything goes right, that is.

Michael looks grim; his face is ashen. It is a face that no child has the right to wear but in times like these, Sam has seen too many like him. Michael’s mother is a strong woman; she simply bids him good luck and makes sure that people will stay clear of Asher’s room while they are working. 

It’s around lunch time and Sam forces some bread down his own throat so that his hands will stop shaking. It’s not very effective. Jess puts a warm hand on the small of Sam’s back.

“You can do it,” Jess says. Sam almost believes her. 

Asher’s arm has not miraculously recovered. The burn has progressed upwards, only about an inch since Sam saw it last. It takes up about two thirds of his arm - and it will not take any more than that, Sam thinks.

-

Sam rinses his mouth out for the third time. The taste of his own vomit still lingers on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his teeth.

It’s okay though. Everything has gone as well as he could have hoped. If there is one thing that can be said for dragonfire, it is that it consumes everything- the blood, the muscles, the bones. No risk of bleeding out, no risk of damaging what is already dead. But Sam can still feel the grating of the bone against the file in his fingertips. His stomach heaves again.

The feeling of Jess’s hand on his shoulder startles him.

“So it looks like Asher is going to be fine.” Her voice is smooth, comforting.

Sam wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his healer’s coat and turns around to give her a smile that he doesn’t really feel is genuine.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

“His fever is going down already and he’s sleeping better,” Jess adds.

“I should probably leave him some numbing salve. He’s going to be hurting a while.” 

Sam thanks Jess for her assistance. It couldn’t have been easy- she had even volunteered to stitch up the gaping wound. After all, she had been the daughter of a tailor; she knew her way around a needle and thread. But no, Sam had declined. He had sewn plenty of stitches before, the only difference had been that Asher was just so _tiny._

Jess gently takes both of his hands before he can go any further. 

“You did well, Sam,” she says. “Thanks to you, he’s going to live.”

Then she reaches up and tugs his head down. She kisses him. 

Her lips are a burst of heat in the cold winter day, red and yellow blossoms in the snow. Sam is suddenly aware of how foul his mouth is right now, though he had tried his best to rinse. But Jess doesn’t seem to mind. Sam feels her lips smile against his own, moving, soft.

“Gods, you taste awful,” Jess says when she pulls away. Sam’s face feels like it could be used to start a bonfire. 

“Uh, sorry?” he offers and Jess laughs, a pleasant tinkling sound that Sam loves.

-

Some of the people staying at the inn offer Sam warm soup and bread for his empty belly. Sam appreciates the gesture- they are not people who can afford to give food out to strangers and every bite is precious. The broth is thin and the bread is stale but it’s one of the best things that Sam has tasted. Michael and his mother are still looking after Asher, who is deep asleep. The more he sleeps, the better his chances, so Sam is glad.

Dean tumbles in a few minutes later, taking the seat opposite of Sam. If he notices how close Jess is sitting next to Sam, he says nothing.

“So, how did it go?”

“Surprisingly well,” Sam says. With the way things are going nowadays, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if tiny gremlins jumped out started attacking him during the operation.

“That’s good,” Dean says, “is Asher going to be okay?”

Sam raises an eyebrow at him. “As okay as a ten year old with one arm is going to be.”

“But he has his big brother looking after him, so he’s going to be fine,” Sam adds and Dean grins.

“I guess,” he says and steals a piece of bread off Sam’s plate. Sam lunges across the table for it and Dean holds it up in the air.

“Come on, we’re not thirteen anymore,” Sam, to his shame, whines.

“Well then, you shouldn’t have any problem sharing, right, Sammy?” Dean says and pops the bread into his mouth. 

“Wow,” Jess says besides Sam, “I can’t believe you’re the one that’s supposed to be leading us.”

Dean grins at her, mouth stuffed full of bread, flashing her his teeth. “Aren’t you glad?” He says.

“So anyways,” Jess rolls her eyes, “what’s going on with the riders now?”

Dean takes his time to chew the bread and swallow before answering her question.

“Well, Jake’s sent Lily to go to the Capital and tell them what’s happening. You know, a dragon rider burning down a half a village is something that they should probably know about.” Dean grabs Sam’s cup of water and drains it, ignoring Sam’s indignant yelp. 

“Until Lily comes back, Jake has us patrolling the area for any suspicious activity. Andy has the first watch and then Ava is going to take tonight.”

Of course, Sam is exempt from the roster, seeing as he is the only one in their unit without a dragon. He’s here just in case any of them gets hurt, that’s all. He can’t help but feel like the odd man out though, as if Dean is going on to do great things and Sam has been left behind with his elbows stained with herbs. He feels further from his brother than ever. 

Jess leaves him with what is left of his food to talk to Jake, and to let her dragon stretch her wings for a bit. She gives Sam a light kiss when she goes. Dean stays a bit longer to pilfer more potatoes and bread from his plate. 

“So, you and Jess, huh?” Dean asks around a mouthful of potatoes.

“Yeah, me and Jess,” Sam says and can’t help the upward tilt of his lips. If there is anything that is worth salvaging in this whole damn messy rider business, it’s him and Jess.

“You sap,” Dean calls out, but it is not mean. He is happy for Sam, Sam knows. “I shoulda figured you for the kind of a guy that gets tied up to a girl when he’s twenty.”

“Screw you Dean,” Sam says lightly. “At least I’m not waiting for some mysterious hooded, possibly criminal, tall, dark, and handsome to show up at my shop.”

Sam takes vicious joy in watching Dean choke on his potatoes. 

“What?” Dean splutters. “I am not.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says dryly. “Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

-

Ava flies in that night, her face streaked with tears, snot running down her nose. It is three whole hours before sunrise, which is when she is supposed to return. She wakes up everyone, banging and screaming. Her dragon, Acheri, is wobbling behind her, _something_ tied on her saddle, rolled up in some rough cloth.

“Ava?” Jake says. 

“It’s,...” Ava swallow big gulps of breath like she’s drowning. “It’s Lily, I found Lily.”

Sam’s pulse quickens.

“What do you mean you found Lily?” Dean asks, dread creeping into his voice. His eye darts to the roll of something that Acheri is carrying. Ava’s tears flow harder, dripping down her chin, onto the dirt.

“I found her..., up on a tree,” Ava struggles with her words, “She was just hanging there like…”

“It’s okay, Ava,” Jake says. Andy and Dean lower the thing from Acheri’s back to the ground. It’s Lily. Or Lily’s body at least. Lily had been a pale girl even when she was alive; in death, she is white as snow. There is an ugly black mark around her neck like she had been choked with a length of rope. 

Jake curses out loud. He shoves two fingers into his mouth and whistles, the loud piercing sound making everyone wince. Jake’s dragon, Talley, comes flying down, landing roughly in front of them. Acheri jumps out of the way.

“Who ever killed Lily is still out there. I’m going to go take a look,” Jake announces. He doesn’t wait for anyone to answer before taking off into the night. Andy calls out a ‘be careful’ after him but Sam doesn’t think Jake hears it.


	7. Fire in the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music suggested for this chapter: Fire in the Sky from the Starcraft II Soundtrack

There is a small army amassing just a few miles west of Cold Oak, Jake tells them. His face is grim. They are not dressed like any soldiers Jake has seen, their expensive gears are not of the flimsy raiders but they bear no flag, only sharpened weapons and hostility that Talley can sense a mile away. 

“Okay, what do you suggest that we do?” Andy asks him. Lily’s dead body is still lying on the cold ground between them; Ava has yet to recover from finding her friend dead, and Jess’s grip on Sam tightens

“I don’t know.” Jake sounds lost, tired.

“There is only one thing we can do,” Sam says.

“And what’s that?”

“We need to ride out and meet them.”

Jake sighs and Dean feels it too. Of course they must. No other choice. They will never win, even if they have Impala on their side; dragons are not infallible, their riders even less so. All it takes is a well-aimed bolt.

“Ride out?” Andy asks.

Sam nods. “It’s the only chance we have. I mean, c'mon, we’re not going to make it out of this alive.”

Ava hiccups hard but she furiously wipes away her tears. There is something in her eyes now - resignation, possibly. She takes a few deep breaths and stands straighter. 

“And this town is still full of people. If we take the fighting elsewhere, don’t let them come to Cold Oak but meet them before they reach here, we can buy the people some time to get out.”

But Sam - Sam is only a healer. He isn’t even supposed to be here. None of them are.

“ _We_ are not doing anything!” Dean shouts at Sam, rounding on him. “I will be doing the fighting, not you, Sam.”

Sam’s teeth clenches, his fist tightening. He puffs his chest out. Dean knows that look. He knows how stubborn his little brother can be when he gets a look like that. Sam’s stubbornness is made of the stuff of legends, a will as strong as swords forged in dragonfire. But Dean can be just as stubborn.

“I can fight, Dean! You know I can!”

“This is not up for discussion, Sam.”

“Bullshit!”

Dean’s head boils. It’s as if all of the thoughts he’s been pushing away for the last few months are exploding out- his thoughts about Sam and dragons and the riders and the obvious state of disarray Brell is falling into. It’s his thoughts about how he probably isn’t going to live for so long because what rider does these days? And about how Dean is going to be leaving Sam all alone - and yeah, he has Jess now but how long will she last? It’s about how Dean’s promised Dad that he would take care of Sam just before Dad flew off one last time and he’s done best he can but it still feels like he’s fallen short. 

Sam already has his sword out- Dean doesn’t know when or where he’d gotten a sword. It’s a good sword, from what he can tell in the dark, his eyes clouded with rage, and Sam is a good swordsman. It would not have been John Winchester if he did not teach his boys how to handle themselves and, even with all his healer duties, Sam has never failed to sit in on Dean’s training. It still doesn’t change the fact that Sam is Dean’s little brother.

Dean grabs Sam by the shoulders. He forces his hands to relax.

“You are not going anywhere,” Dean’s voice is rough. “You are going to stay behind where it’s safe and when we come back, you are going to treat the injured.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it, Dean.” Sam says again. Yeah, Dean knows. They are going to ride out and meet their enemy away from Cold Oak. There are people in this town, innocent people, that have lost friends and family and been to hell and back. Dean isn’t stupid enough to fool himself into believing that their unit is going to come back victorious but maybe they can buy the people some time. The people and _Sam._

“Sam,” Dean swallows, “ you have to stay behind and let the people know what’s coming. You gotta look after these people, okay?”

Sam shakes his head. “You can’t just expect me to let you fly out there by yourself.”

“I’m not going to be by myself, you idiot.” Dean says, “Jake and Andy and Ava are coming with me. Jess too.”

Jess snakes her arms around Sam’s waist. Her hands look impossibly white and small against Sam’s healer coat the color of night time forest. 

“How long do you think you’re going to last up against an army, Dean?” Sam says, his voice almost hysterical. “ Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe?” 

“Yeah, and that’s fifteen more minutes to get the people out of here and away from those bastards!”

“No!” Sam roars. “You are not doing this Dean, you’re not…”

“Not what, Sam?”

“Not leaving me like Dad did.”

The words hit Dean like a punch to his gut. He shakes his head.

“You know it’s not about that, Sam,” Dean says. He doesn’t let Sam answer and turns away to call Impala. Impala roars from the sky and comes crashing down in front of them. Dean can feel his dragon’s distress, the anger - or is it that Impala can feel Dean’s?

“Dean!” Sam yells out from the ground as Dean mounts Impala. He flaps his wings mightily, once, twice, and takes off running. Sam shouts something but Dean doesn’t hear, not with the wind rushing in his ears.

Jake and everyone else follow, though Jess takes a bit more time to untangle herself from Sam. She tries to tell Dean something but he ignores her. This is the best he can do and nothing she says is going to change that.

“Which way?” Dean yells over to Jake. Jake takes the lead and Dean lets him, feeling Impala open his wings wide, and lets the hard winter wind glide under them, take them higher. 

Bobby had once told Dean that a fully trained rider with a fully grown Guardian dragon can take on entire armies. But Dean is far from fully trained, still wet behind the ears, and Impala is only just starting to outgrow the Wyrm dragons.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says to Impala. Sorry that he doesn’t have the chance to grow more, fly higher, become the legend he was supposed to be. 

_Don’t be a fool._ Impala answers. His voice is so impossibly strong in Dean’s mind. _Today is not the day we die._

Dean almost believes him.

It takes almost no time at all to reach where Jake had spotted the army. Smoke rises from their campfires, curling into the night sky. They are not even trying to hide themselves, out in the open like they’re just camping, save for the glint of swords and maces and arrows.

Jake is right. The army bares- no insignia, no flags for their lord, but their armor is too fine to be that of hungry and poor raiders. They are too organized; even when they are relaxing around fires, they do so in groups. A few are watching the treelines. They do not look up.

It is fortunate, that perhaps the riders are few in numbers. Dragon riders are almost impossible to miss with their noisy wings and colorful scales, but tonight the harsh winter winds mask their wings so that the enemy is deaf to their approach. Hope surges in Dean’s heart.

The element of surprise is on their side and the soldiers are clustered close enough that a few good dragonfire blasts from Impala and Talley would take the majority of the soldiers out. The enemy isnot so heavily stocked with archers and the riders are up in the sky: they only need watch out for a few stray bolts, most of which would be deflected by the dragons’ heavy scales. Perhaps there is a chance that he will return to Sam alive after all. It almost seems silly now, the argument that they had.

Dean whispers this to Impala who relays the message to Talley and the others. 

Jake nods at Dean, and Andy, Jess, and Ava fall back behind them. Once the dragons rain fire upon the soldiers, it will be up to them to watch Jake and Dean’s backs. 

And in his planning, distracted by newly kindled hope, Dean does not notice the foul stench of rotting meat that drifts from behind him.

-

Sam curses Dean out loud but doubts that he hears it.

Sam takes off running in the direction of Michael’s inn, not even bothering to sheathe his sword. He’s barely out of breath when he reaches it and he pounds on the doors until a harried looking Michael peeks out, his hair mussed from sleep.

“Sam?” he asks, voice still deep with sleep, “what’s wrong?”

“Michael, get your mother and Asher. Tell everyone that there are raiders at your steps.”

Michael’s eyes widen. He doesn’t ask questions, which Sam is eternally grateful for, and instead turns to wake everyone. Sam doesn’t wait for Michael to come back and runs down what is left of Cold Oak, knocking and pounding on any door he can find.

In no time at all the people of Cold Oak are coming out of their houses, wrapping blankets and coats around their sleeping clothes. 

“Raiders!” Sam yells as he runs. “Raiders are near!”

He finds Elder Thomas with some women and children - his family probably.

“Sam, is this true what you say of raiders?” Thomas asks and Sam nods.

“They have been spotted in the west. You must travel east towards the Capital.” Sam shuts his eyes and says, “There are too many of them for us to stop. You must run while you can.”

Elder Thomas looks like he is about to have a heart attack and Sam grabs his arm to steady him.

“Of course,” Thomas says.

“It’ll take you about a day’s walk to get to the next town over, faster if you have horses. I advise you to send out messengers to Deep Bridge so that they may prepare just in case the raiders continue on.”

Thomas clutches his cane, leaning heavily on it.

“You’re not coming with us, I assume?” Thomas sighs; his age is becoming frighteningly clear to Sam, down to his liver-spotted hands.

“No,” Sam shakes his head, “but I would appreciate it if you could lend me a horse.”

The people are already starting to escape the town. It’s upsetting to see how used they are toleaving all their possessions behind, their homes and memories, and marching out into the cold night. Some of them are carrying packs of provisions, which Sam guesses they had already packed beforehand, just in case of an attack. He is eternally grateful for that. 

Thomas whistles and one of the woman he is with returns with a gray mare. She is not young, bones tired with age.

“She has served me well and hopefully she will do the same to you,” Thomas says and hands over the reigns to Sam. “I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can do for you, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head again. “There is no need.”

Thomas smiles at that, though it is sadder than it is happy.

“Something tells me that this will be the last time I will be seeing you.”

“Probably.”

Sam swings himself onto the saddle. The mare remains steady, calm, despite all the chaos around her, people running from their homes, children confused and upset. She is a fine horse and Sam feels bad that he will be taking her closer to death.

With a nod to Thomas, Sam urges the horse westward, the general direction in which Dean had flown. He passes by Michael and his mother, Asher wrapped up in a blanket and being carried by a man. Michael calls out Sam’s name but Sam does not turn back. He has wasted enough time as it is. As he reaches the outskirts of the town, he wills the mare to go faster. She breaks out into a run, not the fastest horse that he has been on but reliable, and faster than his own running speed, which is all that matters.

Dark silhouettes of trees and shadows cast by pale moonlight sweep by him in a blur. Jake had said a few miles west. It should not take so long to find them - if he can find them, that is. 

It turns out the riders are not very hard to find. Even if Sam were blind, the sounds of metal, the smell of fresh pines burning would be difficult to miss. On top of that there is a terrible smell in the air, like decaying carcass. It’s an awful smell that gets stronger as he gets closer to the sound of battle and something that feels like dread grips Sam’s heart, making it difficult to breathe. 

And finally, Sam sees it, the bright burning orange of Talley’s dragon fire. Sam gets off the horse, leaving her untied. With any luck, she will be able to find her way back to Elder Thomas. Sam draws his sword and carefully approaches where the screams are coming from, men being burned alive with dragonfire. Sam hopes that he is not too late.

Sam spots Jake and Andy right away, amidst the fire and the soldiers, fending off several at a time. Jess is nowhere to be seen and neither are Jake and Andy’s dragons. Dean is at the edge of the burnt clearing, back to back with Impala. Impala roars and swings his tail, knocking two soldiers off their feet.

Just then, Sam hears a crunch behind him and he swings his sword. It meets another sword with a loud clang. And suddenly Sam is fighting for his life, parrying and jabbing. He cuts down a man, and then another. He does not give himself time to think about the way his sword tears and cuts into flesh and he does not think about the way it reminds him of how he cut into Asher’s arm and sawed off his bone. 

By some miracle, Sam makes it near Dean. Dean is struggling to hold himself up and Sam can see his right arm bleeding sluggishly through his leather riding gear, dripping steadily into the snow covered ground.

Sam doesn’t know how long Dean’s been bleeding, only the pallor of his face- it seems impossibly pale in the moonlight. Sam yells.

“Dean!”

Dean turns and sees Sam. His eyes widen.

“Behind you!”

And suddenly the stench of death is all that Sam can smell, not even the acrid smell of burning pine or burning flesh or blood. A wet burst of warm air hits Sam’s back.

Sam turns around and sees Impala standing behind him, smelling like a rotten corpse.

Except it’s not Impala because Impala is standing with Dean, crashing his massive body into the neverending wave of enemies.

A black dragon.

_Abomination!_

The dragon opens its mouth and roars, its filthy, infested spittle flying towards Sam’s face. Sam cannot even raise his sword to defend himself. 

John Winchester’s Dia roars again, smelling like the dead.

Sam can’t find the strength to get out of the way of Dia’s snapping jaw. It seems unreal: the yellowed, rotted teeth each the size of Sam’s entire palm. He can only remember them as they used to be -he used to see them whenever Dia smiled.It feels as though John is going to appear any second now, on top of Dia’s back, proud and strong as he once was.

Sam’s head hits the ground hard. Dean is panting on top of him.

“Snap out of it Sam!” Dean growls.

“Dean?” Sam says.

“Come on.” Dean grabs Sam’s arms and hauls him up. “I told you to not come!”

But Sam doesn’t hear him. He watches as Dia turns, ferociously. He does nothing as Dia swings her tail around, ten times deadlier than Impala’s own, and catches Jake and Andy with it. They hit a tree with a sickening crack.

“Fuck!” Dean curses from beside Sam and suddenly it’s like Sam’s soul has returned to his body.

“Dean!” 

“Fuck! Come on, Sam, you gotta get out of here!” Dean pushes him but there is nowhere to go. The nameless, faceless soldiers are pouring in from the sides, more than Sam can count. They’ve been hiding in the trees, Sam realizes. A trap.

Dia roars again and snaps Andy’s lifeless body in half in her jaw.

Sam ducks to avoid a mace that comes from the side and thrusts his sword out, catching the soldier in the ribs, letting the blade cut through him like paper. The soldier falls but there is another behind him, and more coming from Sam’s sides and front. Impala thrashes, sending men flying off in every direction but it isn’t enough, there are too many of them and-

Suddenly everything goes dark. The moonlight disappears behind a cloud.

No, not a cloud. A huge shadows falls over them, eclipsing the moon. A mighty gust of wind sends Sam’s coat flapping.

White fire, bright as a summer sun, scorches the earth and Dia. There are screams of men being burned alive that Sam barely hears. 

_Abomination!_

Dia shakes off the fire, her scales glowing red with heat but she doesn’t seem to care. She screeches up, at the shadow.

Another volley of white flames, bigger than the first, engulfs her.

Something lands with a heavy thud behind Sam, its tail swinging. Soldiers fall down like leaves.

Another dragon, one that doesn’t smell of death but of thunderstorms, of heated air.

“Dean!” the rider of the dragon calls out in a familiar voice. “Sam!”

The dragon spread its wings impossibly wide, as big as Michael’s Sword, as big as the dragon blocking out the moonlight.

“Castiel?” Dean shouts above Dia’s screams.

Castiel rears back as his dragon stands tall on its two hind legs.

“Steady yourselves!” Castiel yells at them just as his dragon comes down hard, shaking the ground. It tears its mouth open and for a second Sam think that it’s going to roar and breathe out dragonfire. Instead of fire, a blue lightning bolt rushes out, latching onto the metal armors of the enemy soldiers. The light leaves painfully bright streaks across Sam’s vision.

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “Holy shit!”

Sam agrees.

Impala comes charging at them from behind Castiel’s dragon and scoops up Dean with his wings, nearly tossing Dean onto his back.

“Come on, Sam!” Dean shouts and holds his hand out to Sam. He takes it and jumps onto Impala.

Impala takes off running, knocking down anyone who stands in his way. It takes a few steps before he can gain the necessary motion to take off. And just as he does, Sam sees the yellow of Jess’s dragon from the corner of his eye. She is unmoving, lying on her side. Sam sees a shock of blonde hair beneath her.

“No!” Sam calls out.

They’re not very far up, Sam thinks, he can jump down without breaking anything, get to Jess to see if she’s okay.

“It’s too late!” Dean grabs Sam just as he is about to fall of Impala. “It’s too late, Sam.”

Sam fights. He struggles against Dean’s hold. It’s not too late, she can still have a pulse, it’s not too late, he can still save her, after all, what was the point of becoming a healer, if he can’t even save Jess?

“You must leave now!” Castiel calls out from under them. “Fly north and you will find a camp of riders. You can seek refuge there.”

“No, I have to get to Jess!” Sam roars.

Just then, white waves of flame sweep over everything on the ground, over Jake and Andy’s dead bodies, over Jess and her dragon.

“No!”

Impala just climbs higher and higher. Sam clings to Dean.

When he looks back, he sees a golden dragon under the moon, spitting rolls of white flame without rest. It burns everything, purifies everything. The golden dragon’s rider looks impossibly brilliant, illuminated by the white light from the flames and the white light from the moon. 

Impala flies north.


	8. Cowards

Sam passes out somewhere between yelling out Jess’s name and putting the battlefield behind them. Dean doesn’t notice this until the sun rises and he tries to get Sam to see it.

It’s a miracle how Sam stays on top of Impala with his body slack like that.

_I’ve been taking care._ Impala says, his voice serious in Dean’s head.

“Thanks buddy,” Dean tells him.

They fly north until the trees change from oaks and maples to snow laden pines, and still, there is no sign of the camp that Castiel has mentioned.

Castiel.

Dean grips the reigns hard, his knuckles turning white and red. His face is freezing, nose gone numb long ago but he doesn’t feel them. What he feels is fury and confusion pumped out of his heart, painting his vision red. 

Dean can’t believe he’s trusted Castiel for this long. He should have known better, after all, Castiel never talked about himself, refused to answer any casual questions. Dean should have realized that Castiel was not to be trusted when he _followed_ Dean to the Capital after he got recruited.

Was Castiel working for someone? Was he the leader of the army that attacked Cold Oak? Did Dean lead Castiel straight to Cold Oak? What else was Castiel hiding from him?

Absently, Dean realizes that the feather that Castiel has given him is still tied to his belt. Dean rips the talismen off and crushes it in his fist. It is no ordinary feather, Dean sees now. It is a feather from Castiel’s dragon- a dragon feather that allows the dragon to track it down no matter how far they are.

A voice inside Dean’s head, one that sounds suspiciously like Sam, tells him to turn back now and go back to the Capital. Let the captains know what had happened, demand answers about his father’s reportedly dead Dia.

But Impala grumbles, a deep rumbling that shakes Dean to his bones.

_Do you think you can trust the captains?_ Impala asks, though he already knows the answer.

“I don’t,” Dean says, huffing in frustration, “Cold Oak was bad intel.”

Impala agrees with another rumble.

It was a bad intel on purpose and Dean knew it, though he had hoped not. Jake knew it too, the poor bastard, but could not find it to argue with the captains. Seeing Cold Oaks razed to the grounds only confirmed that, though Dean had tried remaining calm for the sake of the others. After all, there was no need to cause panic on suspicion without any proof, was there?

Dean grits his teeth. What he doesn’t understand is why. Why did Captain Alastair pass off rotten intel as a fresh one?

Dean can only guess at this point. Perhaps it was because Impala was a Guardian, destined to become something greater than what noble-borns can hope to achieve. Perhaps Alastair, being a noble himself did not take kindly to a commoner such as Dean being given a Guardian dragon and hoped to nip him in the bud. But then, why Sam?

Dean knew it was too good to be true, that Sam had been assigned to his unit as a healer. He had considered it lucky. Now, it stinks of conspiracy, a plot to get rid of both Winchesters in one go.

Does that mean that Alastair was the one to commission the attack on Cold Oak? Dean wonders to himself. It would certainly explain the unmarked soldiers since Alastair is still a marquis of Brell, he can hardly be seen sending his personal army to attack innocent towns.

Furthermore, how does Dia come in?

Dean’s head is swimming with questions and only conjectures with no answers. He hopes that maybe Castiel, or his camp can answer some. If Dean doesn’t kill him first, that is.

Impala snorts at that thought.

_He is the rider of a full grown Guardian._ ‘You idiot,’goes unsaid.

“Yeah well, that doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna try my best.”

Dean doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s flying. The sun has tipped west some hours ago, tinging the sky orange and red. He can feel Impala’s exhaustion pouring off of him like water overflowing from a cup. Dean soothes Impala the best he can.

It’s only when the sun sets and the moon rises that Dean spots a tiny light off in the distance. With Sam still boneless against his back, he really hopes that the light is coming from Castiel’s camp and not some unknowing travellers or bandits. Worry seizes his heart, irrational fear, a flashback of last night that maybe Dean is flying into a trap, because he doesn’t know if he can trust Castiel. What if Castiel had been working for Alastair too?

However, when Dean gets closer, he can see that the camp is not made up of soldier but of travellers. They have tents set up, made of well-worn canvases and animal skin pelts. A big bonfire burns in the middle of the clearing, too big for a simple fire that is used for cooking and keeping warm. A signal, Dean realized, for Dean to find them.

Impala nearly crashes into the ground, too tired for graceful landings. He nearly flattens one of the tents but manages to swerve his body, his wings only inches from the canvas. Dean manages to hang on to the saddle but Sam gets thrown off.

“Shit, Sam!”

Dean scrambles down to get off Impala, though all he manages to do is fall off himself. His legs shake but he picks himself up long enough to get to his brother. Sam still sleeps on, though at this point, calling it a sleep is pushing it. Sam is nearly comatose, his breathing shallow.

Dean cradles Sam’s head on his knees, just like he used to when they were little.

“Someone,” Dean croaks, his voice hoarse, “someone help.”

A few heads poke out from behind the tent flaps and canvases. People are hiding from him, Dean thinks, just like Cold Oak.

“My,-” Dean’s voice catches in his throat. He clears it with a cough. “My name is Dean Winchester and uh, Castiel sent us here.”

“Please, can someone help my brother?” Dean hates the way his voice sounds right now, tear logged, like a lost little boy’s. His fingers shake as they card through Sam’s hair. His face is pale and his skin feels cold like Sam’s been out in the cold for too long. The fall’s scratched up his face a bit but it’s nothing serious. Sam’s not bleeding and there are no serious injuries as far as Dean can tell, but for some reason, Sam is not _waking up._

Impala curls around the both of them protectively and warily watches as the people come out of their hiding places. 

“You are Dean Winchester?” One of them asks.

“Yes, yes,” Dean answers impatiently and shifts so that they can cover Sam up with a blanket. With Dean, they bundle Sam up and carry him into one of the canvas tents that is empty, with a stinging smell of waterproofing oil.

“He’s too cold,” the stranger says, “I’m going to fetch him more blankets.”

Dean nods though he doubts that blankets are going to help. 

_It’s not an illness of the body._ Impala rumbles, wiser than he had any right to be. _It’s an illness of the mind._

Dean has thought as much. “How do I help him?”

_You can’t._ Dean can hear the apology in Impala’s voice. 

The stranger returns with his arm full of blankets. They are worn but made with fine material and finer stitchings than Dean is used to. The fabrics are varied, wool and cotton, but they are softer and long enough to cover Sam’s entire body without his toes sticking out. Dean takes them without so much as a single thanks. His mind is still brimming with anger and caution.

Impala stations himself in the front of the tent where the opening is and growls threateningly whenever someone gets close; Dean can see his dark silhouette from inside the tent. He feels safe at last.

-

The people at the camp leave a skin full of water and some bread with cheese near Impala in the morning. Impala doesn’t let them get closer, though Dean grumbles that anyone with food is welcome. He manages to get some mouthfuls of water down Sam before stopping, fearing that he will choke. Sam is still unconscious, his hands cold despite the blankets Dean piled on top of him.

Dean chews bread and sharpens his sword because there is nothing else to do. Impala keeps watch.

Dean stops around midday because all his knives and sword are sharp enough that if he keeps going at it, it’ll do more harm than good. So instead he sits by Sam and tells him stories that start with “Hey Sam, remember when,” because he has nothing else to do- nothing else that he _can do_. He tries hard not to worry. He has to believe that Sam will wake up soon.

Castiel touches down two days after Dean’s own arrival. He hears Castiel coming from a mile away, the wing beats of a Guardian is not so easily masked, especially when the air is so calm. Especially when there are two Guardians.

“Dean!” Castiel calls out as soon as he is off his own dragon. He wrestles past Impala who is snapping on his robes to stop him. Apparently, a Guardian rider is much more difficult to intimidate than a handful of civilians.

“Dean!” Castiel says again as he rushes the tent.

Dean punches him. 

Castiel falls out of the tent, canvas flapping behind him.

“Dean?” Castiel’s hand flies to his cheek where Dean’s right hook has left an impressive mark.

Who are you, Dean wants to yell, have you been lying to us- _me_ -all this time? How long have you been a rider? How did you know where to find us? How did you know about the attack? Why did you save me- _us_?

“Why are you so late?” Dean asks instead, his voice watery despite Dean’s attempts to swallow any emotions other than anger down. 

Castiel looks up at Dean, his eyes big and blue in the light of the pale morning sun. 

“I’m sorry,” he says from the ground, one hand still on his cheek. Dean takes a vicious sort of pleasure in knowing that Castiel’s face will bruise by tomorrow. 

“We had to make sure there weren’t any survivors and that the villagers got to safety.” Which Dean translates to _we hunted every last one of them down_ and it’s probably not very far from the truth. Dean’s mind simmers with questions- ones that have been on the tip of his tongue the past few days with no one to answer them. 

Castiel gets up, slowly- cautiously. “We must leave,” he says, though it sounds less like a command and more like a plea.

“Yeah,” Dean nods and swipes his hand across his forehead in frustration and exhaustion. “Okay, I just need to get Sam.”

“Sam.” Castiel blinks. “Yes. Where, uh, how is he?”

And just like that, Dean suddenly remembers his deathly cold brother, barely breathing under a useless pile of fur and blankets. He can’t believe that he’s let himself forget about Sam like that, even for just a moment.

“He needs help.” Dean’s voice is thick, even to his own ears, though he would like nothing more than to deny it.

“Is he hurt?” Castiel asks, shoving past the canvas flaps one more time. Dean lets him. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, Cas.”

Castiel makes a quick work of checking over Sam, looking for external injuries and feeling his forehead for a sign of fever. He swallows when he feels how cold Sam is.

“Impala- my dragon- said it’s an illness of the mind?” Dean tells Castiel and feels the low hum of approval from Impala.

“I see.” Castiel says. Dean hopes that Impala’s diagnosis means something to Castiel because it means jack squat to Dean.

“I need to-” Castiel whirls around, and before Dean can catch the end of his sentence, runs out of the tent, cloak and canvas flapping behind him. 

Dean grabs whatever he’s managed to litter around the tent over the last day or so. Sam’s medicine kit is thrown in the corner and Dean’s shoulder harness that he’s carelessly discarded last night is just about the bulk of it. Sam is still dressed in whatever he was wearing the night of the battle- Dean hadn’t dared undressing him with how cold he was. It’s not like he’s expected to stay at the tent for more than a few days anyway.

Dean finds Castiel outside, though the first thing that catches his eyes isn’t Castiel at all.

The clearing in the middle of the camping ground that was blissfully empty before, with just a single large pyre, is now occupied by two massive, writhing masses. It takes Dean a few moments before he recognizes them as dragons; it’s a wonder how they both managed to land without flattening any of the tents. One of them is black, not pitch-black like Impala, but a shifting collection of dark blues and dark greens, like the colors of raven’s feathers. Dean has never seen a feathered dragon before, only heard about them in stories and rumors. Dean can tell the wings of Castiel’s dragon are massive, even though they are folded up neatly. The primary feathers are longer than the height of a grown man, maybe even two men standing on top of each other.

The other dragon is gold, the color of the most opulent metal. The scales of this dragon glisten and reflects the dull gray morning sunlight even more brilliantly than the most finely polished metal. Instead of shadows, the dragon casts little flecks of rainbow light onto the ground. It hurts Dean’s eyes to look at the dragon for too long. 

Dean instantly recognizes the golden dragon as Loki of Prince Gabriel.

It suddenly becomes clear to Dean- clearer than before- who Castiel is talking to.

The Runaway Prince, the Deserter Prince, the _Coward_ Prince who has abandoned his people in their time of need; who was once heralded as the Bearer of Everlasting Flame. The prince who always brought with him good news of victory and honor, but whose name is now only uttered with curses and laments.

Against the two, full grown Guardian dragons, Castiel and Gabriel (Dean absolutely refuses to think of him as a Prince) look positively tiny. And yet it’s impossible to see them in such a light. Castiel holds his shoulders with the kind of resolution that Dean remembers seeing on the Wing Captains of the Skyriders. Castiel’s height is not insignificant either and it’s easy to see where the song of Black Lightning Rider comes from; the stories of a lightning-fast, feathered dragon descending upon enemies like a blood thirsty carrion was one of Dean’s favorites to hear whenever John had a time to spare for storytelling. 

But perhaps even more impressive is Gabriel. Despite being physically smaller than Castiel, his shoulders not as wide and his height not being enough to be anything notable, his presence completely dwarfs Castiel’s. There is just something about the way Gabriel stands- the way he holds himself- that reminds Dean of Loki. It’s unexpected though, because some corner of Dean’s mind has expected Gabriel to be something like Prince Michael, so regal and full of pride that Dean has a hard time believing that Michael was born to the world screaming and crying like everyone else. But Gabriel isn’t. There is something completely uncontained and wild about the way he snarls at Castiel, face ever-changing like the tides of the sea. 

Dean allows himself to wax poetics about the Coward Prince of Brell only under the excuse that the last couple of days have been extremely stressful.

“Hey!” Dean calls out and is unsurprised to find that the color of Gabriel’s eyes are the same color as Loki’s scales.

“Where is your brother?” Gabriel ask. He does not wait for Dean’s answer, though that doesn’t stop Dean from making some indignant noises at Gabriel’s direction. Instead Gabriel stalks past Dean, ignoring Impala’s half-hearted, exhausted swats to stop him from getting into the tent. 

Dean chases after Gabriel, pulling him off of his brother where Gabriel had knelt far too close to Sam for Dean’s liking. It shouldn’t be this hard push a man so much smaller than himself, Dean thinks, but it is. It’s like trying to move a mountain. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean growls, voice lower and rougher than usual. 

Gabriel pushes Dean off of him. “Your brother needs help.” He says as if this is new information to Dean.

“Yeah, certainly looks that way.” Dean spits, words like acid. He can’t keep the vitriol out of his voice. He’s secretly glad when Gabriel half ignores him for his brother.

“We can’t treat him here,” Gabriel says, “this camp isn’t safe. We’ve paid them off for now but I don’t know how much time that’ll buy us.”

Together, in thick silence, they manage to bundle up Sam for the cold winter air. Sam doesn’t stir once, and Dean tries not to compare it to the time when he and Jake carried out the burnt corpses from the ruins of Cold Oak. 

When Dean motions for them to strap Sam onto Impala’s saddle, Gabriel shakes his head no. 

“What?” Dean asks incredulously. His already thin patience with Gabriel is rapidly becoming nonexistent.

“Your dragon is too tired and small.” Gabriel says and Dean can’t help but take it in offense. 

_I can handle it._ Impala snaps.

“He can handle it.” Dean relays to Gabriel.

But Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tries to shrug it off but can’t because his hands are full with Sam. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean hates that pitying look in his eyes. “It’ll be a long flight where we’re heading and Impala is already tired. We cannot afford to be slow.”

“No.” Dean’s grip on Sam tightens. “He is coming with me.”

Gabriel sighs, though it comes out more like hissing. He sweeps his hair from his forehead. He doesn’t bother hiding his annoyance at Dean.

“Listen here Winchester.” He says and why wasn’t Dean surprised that Gabriel knew his last name? He is so acutely aware of just how much of his life he’s told Castiel, a man he barely knows. “I get that you want to protect you brother, but how fast do you think your little dragon can fly with both you and your giant of a brother on his back, hm?”

Dean is sure that if he wasn’t holding on to his (cold, too cold) brother, he would have launched himself at Gabriel already. Impala growls, baring his teeth at Gabriel. Loki stiffens where he has been leaning against Castiel’s dragon. 

“Fuck you.” Dean grits out. It’s the best he can do.

“I’ll give him a day or two before he needs nap time.” Gabriel continues, ignoring the way Castiel tries to stop him. “And then it’ll all be on your stubborn ass when the damned army catches up with us.”

“Yeah?” Dean returns with more heat than a dragon’s breath, “And you’d know all about running away, now, wouldn’t you?”

It pleases Dean, to see the ugly snarl on Gabriel’s face.

“Enough, both of you.” Castiel steps in. “Sam needs help as soon as possible, there is no time to sit here and fight.” Then, he turns to Dean.

“Dean, Sam can’t afford to lose any more time than he already has,” Castiel’s eyes are big and bright, “and Loki is the oldest dragon here and a good flyer. He won’t let any harm come to Sam.”

“I don’t trust him, Cas.” Dean says, deflating a bit. He doesn’t bother mentioning the fact that he doesn’t trust Castiel right now either. 

“Gabriel is not a bad man,” Castiel promises, “and believe me when I say that your brother’s health is our utmost priority.”

Dean swallows his cries of disbelief because he has no other choice. 

“Alright.” Dean sighs and shifts Sam closer to himself before letting Gabriel take the lead.


	9. The Only Ones

John Winchester flew down to the Southern Outpost on the year that Sam turned sixteen. 

He never flew back up like Dean and Sam had expected him to.

His funeral was a small affair if only because Dean had decline all their neighbors’ offer for help. There was no body to be buried or burned. The runner that came to deliver the news of his demise had carried with him only John’s old rider’s cloak. It had been was familiar piece of cloth, in service as long as John had been a rider. Sam had been used to seeing it clean and well-maintained, if a bit worn. 

It had come back blood-stained and torn, hanging on by a few threads.

So instead of a proper funeral, Sam and Dean had instead decided on burning a pyre in his memory. It wasn’t as big as it should have been because Dean had been only twenty and there was only so much he could do in his grief. They piled John’s old clothes on top of the pyre along with some of his other belonging, little wooden figurines that he used to make when the day was slow, black dragon scales from when Dia was shedding, little things like that. John Winchester was a man of little worldly possessions.

A proper, traditional rider’s pyre would have been lit by dragon fire. Sam and Dean had no such luxury. All of John’s old friends from the Sky Riders seemed to have all simultaneously disappeared, not even to give him a proper send off. Or perhaps it was that John had indeed been given a proper rider’s funeral and all his rider friends had not seen Sam and Dean fit to attend it.

So Dean had went and gotten some oil from Rufus’s forge, something that made the fire hotter for the metals. It was a poor substitute from dragon fire but it was all they had. 

What had really happened to John and Dia, the runner had no stories to tell. Dean and Sam had no clue what had killed his father or how he had died, what had happened to Dia, what was so strong that could bring down a full grown dragon. So Sam had always assumed that Dia had died with John. It was hard to deal with, at first. Dia had always seemed so strong, like nothing could ever bring her down, not arrows, not swords, or spears. Her black scales were harder than any armor that Sam had seen and she was strong, flying for days before needing to come down for a breather. 

But it had been Dia, roaring amidst the battle between a handful of young riders and dozens and dozens of trained men, fighting on the side of the faceless enemy. Never had Sam thought that he would be at the receiving end of her rage.

Or maybe Dia had really died with John.

Sam opens his eyes with the stench of decomposing body in his nostrils. He can still hear the desperate cries of help, echoing inside his skull. Dia’s lifeless red eyes are etched inside his eyelids. He can still smell her, the disgusting smell of dead meat.

It takes a moment for Sam to realize that he isn’t in that damned clearing and the air he breathes is clean, if bit stale.

Instead, Sam is absolutely suffocating. He is swaddled in blankets and fur and there is sweat running down his forehead. There seems to be multiple fires lit near him, all of them hotter than any fire Sam’s ever been near. His toes squelch disgustingly in the tight fur slippers that aren’t even his size.

Sam untangles himself from the heap of blankets and takes off the unnecessary amount of jackets that he doesn’t remember putting on. He strips down to his last shirt which is unsurprisingly drenched in sweat.

“What in the world?” Sam mutters under his breath. Dean is nowhere to be seen and Sam has no clue where he is. He tries standing up but his legs apparently didn’t get the message that he is awake now. But he does manage to get himself upright.

Then the wall behind Sam moves.

Sam’s not proud of the yelp he gives that sounds too much like a scared puppy than anything else. And apparently the wall thinks so too because it gives a throaty chuckle that seems to resonate in the room.

Sam knows it’s a room because he’s managed to scramble away from the moving, breathing, laughing wall, knocking into one of the fires that doesn’t burn him like it should. The floor is a cool, polished marble beneath his wet, sticky palms and the ceiling is tall enough that even with all the magical (because there is no other explanation for the cool, not-burning fire) fires around him, Sam can’t see it.

The wall unfurls itself into a massive dragon, its scales a glinting gold that glitters in the light of the fires. Its head swoops down from the far end of the chamber, stopping just short of Sam. Sam looks into its amber eyes and remembers the great dragon lit with white moonlight, spitting waves after waves of pale flame down below. He remembers the acrid smell of wet pines burning, screams of men who had caught on fire, the way Jess had been unmoving, pinned beneath the bloody carcass of her own canary yellow dragon.

The dragon blinks. Its so close that Sam can feel its warm breath.

“You,” Sam swallows. He desperately wants a drink of water. “You’re the one that saved us, huh?”

The dragon croons, a deep sound that’s more scary than endearing but Sam find himself being charmed by it anyway. He tentatively reaches up to touch its snout which, considering all his luck these past months, is probably is a stupid move. The dragon nuzzles up to his hands, impossibly gentle for something that big. 

“Thanks,” Sam says, “I guess.”

The dragon gives his hand one last push before straightening itself out. Its great, long tail that had been curled around Sam’s bedding swishes to the other side of the room. Suddenly, all at the same time, the handful of fires that had been burning around Sam snuffs out. 

“Neat trick.” Sam tells the dragon. The dragon’s mouth in a way that makes it look like its smiling.

The dragon doesn’t stop Sam from shakily getting up in search of an exit. For that, Sam is grateful. He feels like he won’t be able to fight off a newborn kitten, let alone a full grown Guardian (not that he would’ve been able to even if he was at full strength). His stomach grumbles angrily and he wonders how long he’s been asleep; it feels like he definitely skipped a meal or two.

The room is thankfully slightly lit, even without the magical dragon fires. Sam heads for the exit on the far side of the room, realizing that the room is perhaps too large to be called a room- it’s maybe bigger than the ballroom that Sam’s been in only once at the Royal Palace of Brell. The sound that Sam’s bare feet makes on the cold marble seems to echo off the tall walls and the columns, made of the same richly colored rock that the floor is made up of. Whoever owns this place, Sam guesses, is probably really loaded.

Sam turns around the corner and ends up being knocked flat on his ass.

“What the-” Dean starts, “Sam!”

Dean hauls Sam up off the ground and proceeds to inspect him all over, checking his arms and legs, as if Sam is a puppet with broken joints.

“Dean,” Sam says, “what are you-, it was only a fall, I’m okay.”

“No it’s just, you’re awake!”

“Uh,” Sam tilts his head, “yeah?”

“You’ve been asleep for like a week.” Dean’s voice kinda sounds watery but Sam knows his brother well enough to not comment on it, though he does file away the tease material for later.

“What?” Sam’s apparently week-starved stomach sends another pang of hunger up his spine. 

“Yeah, come on, sleepy head, let’s get you some clothes and chow.” Dean lets Sam lean on him, one arm slung over his shoulders. It makes for a pretty awkward stance, considering that Sam has a few inches over Dean. 

“Gods, you stink.” Dean sniffs and wrinkles his nose but keeps Sam by his side.

“Shut up,” Sam laughs. His knees wobble and he heartily lets Dean take all his weight.

“I know you can walk, get your fat ass off of me.”

“But why would I when I have my strong big brother to take care of me?” Sam flutters his eyelashes at Dean and blows his stinky morning (week?) breath into Dean’s face. 

“Ugh, you’re lucky that I know you’re a giant pansy.” 

-

Sam sort of stumbles after Dean, his knees still feeling like overcooked noodles. The place that they’re in is palatial- Sam is pretty sure it is an actual palace. Tall columns of marble supporting grandiose arches that is unfamiliar to Sam. The air hangs hotter and wetter than Sam is used to, considering that they’re still in the middle of a very harsh winter. One blank, dark hallway stretches and turns into another blank, dark hallway but Dean walks like he knows where he’s going. Huh, it’s really been a week since Sam’s been out.

They end up in sort of a long hall with a long wooden table running down the middle of it- one that looks kinda like the ones that the Riders have in their own mess hall. The table is stained, showing obvious signs of recent use though it seems like no one has bothered to clean after themselves. The seat of the chairs are shiny from age; few of them are tucked neatly into the table but most are scattered, some with legs missing, chipped backs, and splintered spindles. It looks like whoever was using the hall had enough sense to just simply gather up the usable furniture towards the entrance. There is a small collection of serviceable chairs and stools at the end of the table while the ones too broken to be used as anything other than fire kindling sit in the back, gather dust and cobwebs.

Dean grabs a piece of pretty stale looking bread from a basket that Sam hasn’t noticed. There are also plates of cheese and goblets full of water. It’s not much but Sam’s mouth waters.

“So,” Sam says, ripping his bread into smaller pieces, “where are we?”

Dean shrugs, looking over Sam’s shoulder, instead of answering. He takes a sip from his cup, clearly stalling for time. 

“How much do you remember before you passed out cold?” Dean asks instead.

Sam frowns. He chews, not really tasting how strong the flavor of the cheese is, or how hard the flesh of the bread is. 

“I remember that there was an attack,” he starts, slowly. “They weren’t just raiders or bandits.”

Dean nods, encouraging him to go on. 

“I- I wasn't there for the beginning, but-”

“Remind me to yell at you for that.” Dean adds drily. 

“Shut up, Dean. Anyways, I remember that there was a dragon that smelled like rotten meat and it looked like…” Sam closes his eyes, trying to find some other way of describing the thing he had seen. An abomination, an unfamiliar voice supplies somewhere in his mind.

“Like Dad’s dragon.” Dean says.

“Except, she wasn’t.” Sam’s voice waivers. “That’s impossible, right?”

Dean sighs but doesn’t say anything. 

“Cas was there too, I think. I don’t think I’m making that up in my head.” 

“Good to know that you haven’t gone crazy in that dragon sleep of yours.”

Sam raises his eyebrow at the term. He files away to ask Dean later.

“Right, so,” Sam says, “where is everyone?”

“Everyone?”

“Jess, Lily, Ava, Jake, you know?” Sam scraps his brain and bites back a mouthful of bile when he comes upon a particularly gruesome picture. “I think I saw Andy die though.”

Dean puts down the bread he’s been chewing and rubs his forehead. 

“And there was another rider too, with Cas, right?”

Dean nods and says, “that dragon back there, in that room with you, that’s his dragon.”

“Alright.”

“Listen, Sammy…” He sighs, “it was an ambush, we didn’t know they had a dragon, or whatever that thing was that looked a lot like Dad’s dragon.” 

Sam’s stomach drops. The bread and the cheese suddenly turns to ash in his mouth.

“We weren’t ready. None of us were, gods know that we weren’t even supposed to be out there.”

“What are you trying to say, Dean?” 

“Me and Jake, we talked about it, and the whole thing had bad intel written all over it but we didn’t know what else we could do.” Dean continues, looking into Sam’s eyes. “And it’s a fucking miracle that Cas even found us at all.”

“Where is everyone?” Sam asks though he knows the answer.

“We’re the only ones who made it out, Sam.”

-

The taste of vomit still clings to the end of Sam’s tongue even after several mouthfuls of water. He’s so tired, and all he wants to do is go back to sleep. He remembers the smell, the smell of rotten meat, the smell of grass burning, the smell of bodies burning. The smell of Jess burning. Sam swallows down another lurch of his guts. The memory of bright white-golden fire, devouring everyone and anyone, is burned into his retina, blindingly brilliant, even behind his closed eyelids. 

Sam rests his forehead against the rim of the large marble bowl he’s been emptying his already pretty-empty stomach into. The cool stone feels good against his sweaty skin.

“Where are we?” He asks into the bowl.

“Pandora.” Dean answers simply, voice hollow. 

“Shit.” Sam says. They’re not even in Brell anymore.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees and hands him a wooden cup full of lukewarm water. He takes it but doesn’t drink from it. 

“What the fuck happened, Dean?”

Dean slides down to the floor where Sam’s been sprawled on. He crosses his legs and leans deeply into the hard stone walls. “Remember the other rider that came with Cas?” He asks.

“Yeah?”

“Well that was,..” Dean shakes his head, letting out a huff of breath, “that was Gabriel.”

The name doesn’t immediately register to Sam. After all, it’s not exactly a one of a kind name. It’s gotten pretty popular over the years, especially after Prince Gabriel had joined his older brothers in the ranks of Sky Riders. And then it hits him.

“You mean, the Prince one?”

“You were always the smart one.” Dean says.

“What, how…” Sam’s head is full of so many questions that he doesn’t know which one to ask first.

“Don’t get so excited,” Dean says sullenly, “I met the guy and he’s a giant dick.”

Dean looks pleased with himself when Sam puffs out a little laugh at that.

“Yeah well, the rest of Brell is inclined with agree with you on that.”

Sam still remembers the faithful day when he was sixteen. Their father had still been alive. It had been a cloudless, sunny day when the sudden overcast shadows made him look up and he saw the giant bellies of dragons flying south. It was only few days later that Sam learned it had been Prince Gabriel and a few other riders like him, flying to their self-exile. Prince Gabriel had willingly laid down their arms and abandoned his brothers and his people. _The Coward Prince_ , people had started calling Gabriel, for running away from his problems, and the problems of the land.

Sam gulps down the entire cup full of water, suddenly finding his mouth parched.

“Yeah, so it turns out that Cas is, you know, one of the guys that ditched the riders with Gabriel, but he’s been checking on the country every so often.”

“You mean?”

“Yeah, like when he came to Lawrence to get his sword polished or whatever.” Dean makes air quotes with his two fingers.

“Shit.” Sam says again and Dean nods.

“So he found out that something on was going on with the riders and basically followed us to Cold Oak and showed up for his daring rescue with Gabriel.”

“A bit too late.” Sam sighs. His head is spinning again, though he doesn’t know if it’s the fact that he’s just thrown up what little he had managed to eat, or because of all this crap that life has apparently decided to dump on his lap.

Dean shrugs and says “I haven’t really had a chance to talk to the guy, he’s been kinda absent and with you in a freaking coma, I didn’t want to go and hunt him down.”

“Where’s Impala?” Sam asks and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Probably off flying with Seraph,” he says, “that’s, er, Cas’s dragon.”

“Of course,” Sam says, thinking of the giant golden dragon that he had woken up next to. He remembers Cas’s dragon having the same dark color of Impala’s scale. So that must’ve been Prince Gabriel’s dragon then.

“Whatever.” Dean gets up, dusts his knees and hold out his hand. Sam lets Dean drag him up off the floor. “Let’s get some more grub in you if you think you can handle it.”

Sam doesn’t think he can but nods anyway for Dean’s benefit.

“I think I can find some soup around here somewhere,” Dean says, eyeing Sam.

“Where is _here_ , exactly?”

“Well, it turns out, our own little Prince Gabriel has a little tryst with the Duchess of Pandora, and when he decided to jump ship, she thought it might be romantic if he came and lived with her.”

“So we’re at…”

“Duchess Kali’s palace.” Dean finishes for him. He opens his arms and gestures to the marble floors. “Or at least, the lower courtyard that hasn’t been used for a while apparently.”

“Right.”

“Come on, Sammy.” Dean pats Sam’s chest once, twice. “You need to eat and I need to find Impala so he can tell me where Castiel is.”

Sam follows Dean out of the hall and tries to not think of Jess and the way she used to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for some exposition...


	10. The Dick: Part 1

It turns out that the rest of the palace, though it take a quite a bit of walking to get there, aren’t as abandoned as the lower courtyards. The further into the palace they travel, the more crowded it gets; there are gardeners working to tend hedges and trimming bushes, watering flowers that Sam have never even heard of; servants scurrying around with arms full of cleaning supplies, various baskets of food that smell like nothing Sam has ever smelled. Delighted shrieks echoes from small girls and boys running down the open pavillion. Their colorful silk clothes flap behind them as they weave in and between the more serious adults, who tsk in the children’s general direction. The broth that Dean gets from the steamy kitchen is watery but still spicier than anything Sam’s had- the heat curls pleasantly in the bottom of his guts better than stale bread and cheese. 

The whole scene is so different from the cold, grey, dreary picture that Cold Oak had been; it leaves a bad taste in Sam’s mouth.

On the third night after Sam has regained consciousness, he wakes up chilled to the insides of his bones, from a silent, nameless nightmare. The familiarity of the dream startles him- it’s stopped feeling like a nightmare and more like a constant reminder of some unknown threat, unknown sense of loss, sadness. 

He shivers despite the warm temperatures of Pandora.

Any thoughts of sleep gone, Sam wanders out, narrowly avoiding tripping on one of Dean’s dirty shirts. The moon seems impossibly big on Pandora and Sam tries to imagine just how far away he is from Brell, from Lawrence, from home. Never in a million years had he imagined his year going like this- when Sam had still been spending his days in Missouri’s apothecary, nights in his house, eating whatever dinner Dean had concocted for the evening. 

Sam misses it- the normalcy of it all, the life when the only dragons in his life had been the occasional shadows in the sky.

He wanders down the lower courtyard that he and Dean had been permitted to stay in. Impala is snoozing in the garden right outside it, belly rolling against the soft, uncut grass, green from the everlasting summer of Pandora. Sam has never seen Impala so carefree. Dean often comments on how fat Impala is getting, though in reality, he is just growing into his wings faster than he had been in Brell’s winter. 

Sam stops to marvel at the moonlight reflecting on Impala’s lacquer shiny, black scales. It’s so peaceful here, Sam thinks.

Impala peeks one of his eyes open, lazily, rolling onto his back after a soft snuff in Sam’s direction.

Sam continues walking up, into the upper courtyard, where the stone floors are kept shiny from constant scrubbing and the grass has been neatly trimmed. The upper courtyard is even stranger than the lower courtyard in the silence of the night. Duchess Kali has made her name in being the arbiter of international trade routes and it shows in the palace she chooses to keep. Sam is still trying to get used to the sheer amount of precious stones and expensive materials that make up her palace; the clothes she has graciously provided them with are finer than the standard supplies from Sky Riders, the food that even the servants eat are richer, fatter, meatier.

In their old, battle stained clothes, Dean and Sam would have looked even poorer than even the poorest of her staff.

Strangely enough, Sam has yet to see their hostess, Duchess Kali, though a few servants had been by to announce her welcome of them. And aside from his first, closer than preferred encounter with Prince Gabriel’s dragon, Loki, Sam had not even seen a hair on their supposed savior’s head. Castiel has also been strangely absent but he couldn’t have been far as Seraph, Cas’s own black dragon, frequented Impala often enough.

So it catches Sam off guard when a giant, ornate door (not more ornate than the other doors in the upper courtyard, still) in front of him opens with a heavy groan and warm, orange firelight spills out into the moonlit hallway. Sam tenses for a second before forcing himself to relax, wondering who else besides him could be up at this late hour. 

A man slip out, his face obscured by a heavy shadow. What catches Sam off guard, though, is the man’s state of undress. Pale chest, dusted by fine golden hair is illuminated by the moonlight, as are his pair of legs, ending in two, equally pale pair of feet. The man’s skin is dotted with white lines from scars and cuts, few spots looking like burns- some of them looking large and angry enough to look to have been life-threatening once. At least, Sam thinks, he is wearing underwear, no matter how red and obscene looking it may be.

The crack of a finger snap rings in the silence of the hall. 

“Eyes up here, big boy.” The man says. Belatedly, Sam realized that he has been staring. 

“Er, sorry,” Sam feels his face flush, quickly, as if to make up for lost time. He averts his eyes in favor of staring at a marble column just behind the man.

The man grins. “No worries, I know I’m hard to resist,” he says graciously and Sam feels the urge to roll his eyes.

“Right,” Sam replies, “I’ll just get out of your way and let you get back to whatever.” He waves his hands in a universal gesture for _whatever_. 

“You do that,” the man says and turns around, not an ounce of shame in his voice or otherwise.

He disappears into the darkness of the hallway and Sam blankly watches the man’s head of dirty blonde curls bob away, wondering what the hell had just happened. 

-

Sam wakes up later, to the murmur of a conversation back in the room he shares with Dean. Castiel’s familiar face is a welcome sight, though the faint coloring of a bruise on his jaw is slightly worrying.

“What happened to your face?” Sam asks sleepily in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing.” Dean answers instead.

Sam blinks.

“It was nothing, Sam.” Cas agrees. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain I guess.” 

“That’s good.”

Sam blinks again. A sort of strange awkwardness falls between them.

Dean coughs. “So, if you’re up now, we can go have breakfast or lunch or whatever,” he says.

“Alright?” Sam says cautiously, wondering what had changed.

“Then I have somthing that I wish to discuss with the both of you.” Castiel sounds as grave as ever.

“Right, just let me change I guess?” Castiel nods, letting Sam untangled himself from the bedding.

The three of them shuffle down to the kitchens where they are given a pot of thick, sweetened porridge and some fruits. They settle in the abandoned hall, too large for just the three of them. Castiel explains that the lower courtyards had been used to house Duchess Kali’s personal military forces, though recently, most of them had been disbanded, leaving the lower courtyards to collect dust. 

“So, have you been staying here ever since…?” Sam asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Ever since I had left the Sky Riders?” Castiel asks back, then sighs. “I suppose, mostly, yes.”

Dean looks between Sam and Castiel, taking another loud slurp of the porridge.

“I see.” Sam tries for nonchalance.

“You’re not happy with me.” Castiel says, more of a statement than a questions.

Sam takes a moment to try press down the rising anger. He remembers the state that Cold Oak was left in, people living in fear, unable to even bury their dead, little Michael and Asher, the feeling to flesh tearing, bone grinding. He pokes at his porridge with a bit more force than necessary. 

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not here to argue with you or excuse my past actions,” he says.

“Years ago, when I had first left the Sky Riders, I was young, foolish. Most of all, I was angry.” Castiel puts down his spoon pointedly. “Sky Riders now are not what it had been before. Before, when Prince Michael and Prince Lucifer has still rode into battle side by side and when Brell had not been under the whims of that… _Steward_...” 

Castiel takes several calming breaths.

“It had been a different time. The Six Wings rode together as brothers and sisters in arms and Riders did not have to compete with each other over some handful of coppers. They were very much like my family.”

“So what changed?” Dean says through a mouthful. Sam makes a face at him.

Castiel sighs again and for the first time ever, Sam notices how tired he looks. Castiel cannot be more than perhaps thirty years in age, thirty five if Sam pushes his guesses. And yet his shoulder sags like a man burdened with much more, the bags under his eyes heavy. Weighed down with responsibility, guilt, or both.

“Something that had been a long time coming.” Castiel sighs.

Sam looks at Dean. Dean shrugs.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says firmly, “I now know that the choice I had made then was wrong and I’ve been trying to help in any way I can.”

“Like saving us?” Sam asks.

Castiel looks up at Sam sharply, like he hadn’t been expecting it. 

“Yes, of course. You are my friends.” 

Dean scraps his bowl loudly as Castiel falls silent.

“So now what?” Dean says, now taking large bites of some unknown fruit. Sam guesses that it must be really good because Dean would usually never go near a fruit voluntarily. 

“Now?” Castiel asks back.

“You know, what do we do now?” Dean gestures to himself and Sam. “Do we stay here, go back to Brell, wait until Sam faints again like a girl?”

“Hey!”

Dean grins and ruffles Sam’s hair, though Sam sees through his thinly veiled attempts to wipe his fruit-sticky hands in Sam’s hair. Sam bats his arms away.

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “It would not be a good idea to go back to Brell, nor would I recommend over-staying Duchess Kali’s welcome.”

“So what, do you expect us to just abandon our friends just like you?” Sam huffs, his voice tight. He tries to keep his anger under control, Castiel had saved him, him and Dean both but it’s so difficult not to blame him for all the shit that had happened in Brell, in the Sky Riders. Could Cold Oak have gone better if Castiel had still been in the Sky Riders? Could little Asher’s arms have been saved?

Dean doesn’t say anything but he does give Sam a little pat.

“No,” Castiel sounds a little horrified, “of course not, I would never ask anyone to do that.”

“But you would be in danger if you were to return to Brell. I believe that someone has been trying to target the Sky Riders and the attack at Cold Oak has been-”

“For us, I mean, Dean and everyone else?” Sam finishes for Castiel. He remembers the day when all those Gale Riders had limped into the Capital. Being only an apprentice healer, Sam himself hadn’t been privileged any information at all but as one of the only three Guardian riders, Dean had heard a whole lot more, from both official sources, that really didn’t tell much of anything, and unofficial sources that were mostly wild estimations. 

The official announcement had been that the Gale Riders had been attacked by a trained army from an undisclosed source. Some of the more haughtier (and in Sam’s opinion, stupider) riders had said that it was because the Gale Rider’s focus on speed that left them vulnerable to even the most untrained bandits and rogues. Worried riders had said that the Gale Riders were attacked by the villagers who blamed the Sky Riders for not protecting them sufficiently enough. Garth in particular had near-whispered to Sam and Dean that Captain Singer had been in particularly foul mood because of the attack, though Captain Harvelle of the Gale Riders herself had been tight-lipped and silent. The riders, however, all had agreed that the attack should be kept close to their hearts and away from chatty mouths. 

“Yes,” Castiel nods gravely, “there has been many attacks on the riders recently, even more so than usual.”

“Then that’s all the more reasons why we should go back to Brell!” Sam says heatedly, “we need to report back what happened and what we know about the enemy.”

“Sam, Sam!” Dean tries next to him. “Listen, it’s not that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean and Castiel shares a look. Sam tries to not feel too left out.

“Back in Cold Oak, me and Jake, er, we discussed the possibility that someone up on the food chain is trying to kill us off.”

“What?”

Dean sighs and rubs his forehead. “You didn’t think it was strange that everyone on our squad was common born?”

“I…” Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to Sam that everyone was common born until now.

“It’s true that there has always been a tension between the common riders and the noble riders,” Castiel nods, “and it has only escalated since the Steward took the throne.” 

 

“So what, you think that some noble captains are all in a plot to kill off all the common riders or something?” Sam chokes out, thoughts swirling. He hasn’t noticed, always sequestered at the Healer’s, Sky Riders’ politics have always been out of his sights. Then he remembers what Ruby had told him about Dean, back when they were watching the Six Wings march into the Capital- that Dean was different because Impala was one of the rare Guardian Dragons. 

“Well, not all the common riders,...” Dean says, “just me because, you know, those rich bastards need someone to do the grunt work.”

Sam feels as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head. 

“How come you never told me this before?” Sam’s nose flares angrily.

Dean at least has the decency to look apologetic, “I wasn’t really sure until Cas told me what was going on.”

“You didn’t think your life being in danger _might_ have been something you should’ve talked to me about?” Sam lets the red hot anger take over the cold numb shock. “What the hell have we been sitting around for four days for?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, with all the crap that’s been going on,” Dean says, voice defensive now, “didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“I can’t believe this,” Sam shakes his head, “So if we can’t go back to Brell because someone is out to kill you, what the hell are we gonna do?”

Dean shrugs and resumes emptying the bowl of fruit. “We need to talk to Gabriel.” Castiel says.

“The Prince?” Sam asks, “Why? What does he have to do with it?”

“Despite his self-exile, Gabriel is still powerful, as a prince and a rider. There are still riders in the Sky Riders that are loyal to him.”

“And how’s that suppose to help us?” Sam asks, his own bitterness comes as a surprise, even to Sam himself. 

“I’ve been trying, ever since I had realized my mistake of leaving Brell with Gabriel, to convince him to go back but he won’t listen to me.” 

“What makes you think that he will even listen to us?” Dean asks.

Castiel gives Sam a pointed look, something that Sam doesn’t know how to interpret. “For the first time in years, Gabriel has flown on Loki to fight and it was to rescue you. The only person that can get Gabriel to fly nowadays is Kali. And yet he took up flight again. If you can get him to do that again…”

“Yeah, I doubt that he’ll listen. He doesn’t even know me.” Sam says.

“You never know.” Castiels shrugs. Sam can’t honestly think of a reason why this self-exiled prince would listen to him. What else did Castiel know that he wasn’t telling Sam?

“In any case, it would not hurt us to speak with Gabriel and he is the best chance we have.” Castiel says and stands up, taking his empty bowl with him. “Come, we shouldn’t delay this longer than we must.”

-

Though Sam and Dean has been staying at Kali’s palace for a while now, they hadn’t exactly bothered to explore the place more than they needed to until now. It was part because they did not want to step on anyone’s toes since they did not know how welcomed they were, but also because they were not interested. Sam regrets this decision now.

The path that Castiel takes them through cuts through the large garden that Sam has only admired from afar. It’s full of green bushes, deeper in color than any other plants Sam’s seen in Brell. The flowers seem to be thriving in Pandora’s warmer climate and their sweet spicy scents that fills the air tread on the verge of overwhelming. Nonetheless, Sam can admit that the vibrant reds and bright yellows of these large blossoms make a very beautiful scene. Sam wonders what kind of herbs Pandora grows and what kind of medicines they make, and if he can take some of them when he leaves.

Eventually, they end up at a secluded corner of the garden, where a small, but ornate, red gazebo stands. It’s framed by a small lake, whose pretty green waters hold unidentifiable, floating flowers as large as Sam’s head. A distant croak from an unseen frog sounds occasionally. 

The gazebo itself is loaded comfortably with purple velvet cushions and golden curtains- just like every other corner of this palace, lavishly decorated with riches. Inside, two people sit, surrounded by plates laden with sweet-looking snacks and fruits cut into pretty shapes. One of them is a woman. Her clothes are the same color as her lips- ruby red material drapes around her, shining in the sun. The gold jewelry shining with colored stones forms a striking contrast against her dark skin. She’s very beautiful, just like the palace she keeps.

The other person is a man, pale, and familiar. It’s the same man that Sam has run into the night before. Thankfully, he’s wearing more clothes now. Sam flushes as he remembers the silky red material of the man’s underwear. 

“Duchess,” Castiel greets, “and Gabriel.”

“Castiel.” Kali says, her voice deep and sweet. Gabriel doesn’t say anything, and instead pops a grape into his mouth.

“And these, must be my guests,” Kali says, languidly sweeping her gaze across Sam and Dean.

“Dean and Sam Winchester,” Castiel introduces them because they can, “Sky Riders from Brell.”

“Oh, so I’ve heard,” Kali’s tone lifts, as if she finds something funny. “It’s my honor to be able to welcome such distinguished warriors into my home.”

Sam feels vaguely insulted.

“Yes, well…”

“And we thank you for your hospitality.” Sam says, cutting Castiel off.

“My pleasure, Sam Winchester.” Kali purrs. “Now, what can I help you with?”

“We’re actually here to speak with Gabriel, if you will excuse him from your presence.” Castiel replies.

“Of course,” Kali says, “I would not think of keeping him from you.”

At this, Gabriel snorts loudly. He stands up, picking up a couple of sweets from a plate next to him.

“Oh boy, I wonder what this could be about.” Gabriel speaks up for the first time. His tone is flat and dry. He’s also shorter than Sam expected. 

Gabriel stomps out of the gazebo, past the three of them and walks ahead, not bothering to look back. 

Castiel hurries to follow him. Dean leans back and whispers to Sam, “See, I told you he’s a dick.”


End file.
